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50 Cents 


)5 ^ 

160 

Xovell’s Unternational Scries 


The Soul of Countess 

Adrian 


BY 

MRS. CAMPBELL PRAED 


Author ok “An Australian Heroine,” “Nadine,” “Zero,” Etc., Etc. 


1 , 


Aiithon^ed Edition 


NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK’ COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL; COMPANY 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 

Every work in this series is published by arrangement with the author. 


Issued Weekly. Annual Subscription, $15.00. April 27, 1891. 
Entered at New York Post Office as second-class matter. 


LOrELL’S 

INTERNATIONAL SERIES 

OP 

MODERN NOVELS. 


The new works published in this excellent Series, Semi- Weekly, are always 
the first issued in this country. 

Every issue is printed from new, clear electrotype plates, on fine paper 
and bound in attractive paper covers of original design. 


NO. 

Ots. 

No. 

Cts. 

1. 

Miss Eyon op Eton Court. 


31. 

That Other Woman. Annie 



Katherine S. Macquoid 

30 


Thomas 

30 

2. 

Hart AS Maturin. H. F. 


32. 

The Curse of Carne’s Hold 



Lester 

50 


G. A. Henty 

30 

3. 

Tales OP To-Day. G. R. Sims 

30 

33. 

Uncle Piper op Piper’s Hill. 


4. 

English Life Seen Through 



Tasma 

30 


Yankee Eyes. T. C. Craw- 


34. 

A Life Sentence. Adeline 



ford 

50 


Sa.re’eant 

30 

5. 

Penny Lancaster, Farmer. 


35. 

Kit Wyndham. F. Barrett.. 

30 


Mrs. Bell -my 

50 

36. 

The Tree op Knowledge. 


6. 

Under False Pretences. 



G. M. Robins 

30 


Adeline Sergeant 

50 

37. 

Roland Oliver. J. McCarthy 

30 

7. 

In Exchange for a Soul. 


38. 

Sheba. Rita 

30 


Mary Linskill 

30 

39. 

Sylvia Arden. O. Cra'^Turd 

30 

8. 

CuiLDEROY. Ouida 

30 

40. 

Young Mr. Ainslie’s Court- 


9. 

St. Cuthbert’s Tower. Flor- 



SHIP. F. C. Ptiilips 

30 


enoe Warden 

30 

41. "TThe Haute Noblesse. Geo. 


10. 

Elizabeth Morley. Rather- 



ManvilleFenn - 

30 


ine S. Macquoid 

30 

42. 

Mount Eden. F Marryat.. 

30 

11. 

Divorce ; or Faithful and 


43. 

Buttons. John S. Winter. . . 

30 


Unfaithful Margaret Lee 

50 

44. 

Nurse Revel’s Mistake. 


12. 

Long Odds Hawley Smart 

30 


Florence Wa den 

30 

13. 

On Circumstantial Evidence 


45. 

^RMiNELL. •<. Baring-Gould . 

50 


Florence Marryat 

30 

46. 

The Lament of Dives. Wal- 


14. 

Miss Kate; or Confessions 



ter Besant 

30 


OF A Caretaker. Rita — 

30 

47. 

Mrs. Bob. J<'hn S. Winter.. 

30 

15. 

A Vagabond Lover. Rita- • . 

20 

43. 

Was Ever Woman in this 


16. 

The Search for Basil Lynd- 



Humor Wooed. C. Gibbon. 

30 


HURST. R saN. Carey 

30 

49.- 

The Mynn’s Mystery. Geo. 


17. 

The Wing of the Azrael. 



Manville Fenn 

30 


Mona (’aird 

30 

50. 

Hedri. Helen Mathers 

?0 

18. 

The Fog Princess. F. Warden 

30 

51. 

The Bondman Hall Caine.. 

30 

19. 

John Herring. S. Baring- 


52, 

A Girl of the People. L. T. 



Gould 

50 


Mea.de 

30 

20. 

The Fatal Phryne. F. C. 


53. 

Twenty Novellettes. By 


Philips and C. J. Wills 

30 


Twenty Prominent Novelists 

30 

21. 

Harvest. John S. Winter. . . 

30 

54. 

A Family Without a Name. 


22. 

Mehalah. S. Baring-Gould. . 

50 


Jules Verne 

30 

23. 

A Troublesome Girl. “ The 


55. 

A Sydney Sovereign. 



Duchess 

30 


Ta.sma 

30 

24. 

Derrick Vaughan, Novelist 


56. 

A March IN THE Ranks. Jes- 


Edna Lyall 

30 


sie Fothergill 

30 

25. 

SophyCarmine. John Strange 


57. 

Our Erring Brother. F. W. 



Winter 

30 


T?,obi n son 

30 

26. 

The Luck of the House. 


58. 

Misadventure. W. E. Norris 

30 


Adeline Sergeant 

30 

59. 

Plain Tales from the Hills 


27. 

The Pennycomequicks. S. 



Rudyard Kipling 

50 


Baring-Gould 

50 

60. 

Dinna Forget. J. S. Winter 

30 

28. 

Jezebel’s Friends. Dora 


61. 

CosETTE. K. S. Macquoid... 

30 


Russell 

30 

62. 

Master of His Fate. *J. Mac- 


29. 

Comedy of a Country House. 



laren Cobban 

30 


Julian Sturgis 

30 

63. 

A Very Strange Family. F. 


30. 

The Piccadilly Puzzle. 



W. Robinson 

30 


Fergus Hume 

30 

64. 

The Kilburns. A. Thomas. 

30 


CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OP COVER. 


THE SOUL OF 
COUNTESS ADRIAN 



Xoveirs IFnternntional Serfee, Mo. 160. 


THE SOUL OF 
COUNTESS ADRIAN 




MRS. CAMPBELL ^RAED 

AUTHOR OF 

“ AN AUSTRALIAN HEROINE,” “ NADINE,” “ ZERO,” ETC., ETC. 



cAutbori^ed Edition 



NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 




?Z5 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 


THE 


SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 

— — ■ ■ 

CHAPTER I. 

A Meeting on the Sea. 

He, She and Another — the triangle of the human drama! 
He was a rich, popular, unmarried artist, now on his 
return from a tour in the Western States. She was a 
young American actress, for whom her friends prophesied 
a great future. The “Other” was as yet unknown. 
He and She were fellow-pa -sengers on board one of 
the North German Lloyd boats from New York to 
Southampton. They had been at sea several days, but 
had not so far made acquaintance. The early part of 
the voyage was rough ; and though he was a good sailor, 
and ate, and smoked, and paced the deck with as much 
ease as the motion of the vessel would allow, she had 
neither his courage nor his hardihood, and did not even 
put in an appearance in the saloon or the reading-room. 

It was on the sixth evening that he was struck at 

B 


10 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


dinner by the sight of a new face, and saw that the 
hitherto vacant chair on the left hand of the captain 
was filled at last. He was glad to find that its occupant 
was a young woman — hardly more than a girl — and, 
moreover, that she was very beautiful. There could not 
be two opinions as to her beauty, though he mentally 
decided that it was of a kind which would not appeal 
with equal force to all tastes ; certainly, it would not 
appeal at all to admirers of the fleshly type, who prefer 
the charm of sense to that of soul. 

It iseemed to London — so he was called — ^that this 
young lady’s soul might be likened, as in Dryden’s 
metaphor, to a rare and well-tempered blade fretting 
its too delicate scabbard, so frail was her physique, 
so ethereal her look. Her face was very pale, but its 
paleness was not that of ill health. It had no lines, 
and the shadows beneath her eyes and around the curve 
of her cheek melted into each other, so that there seemed 
perfect softness and no shadow. Her features were small 
and regular, the nose delicately curved, and the nostrils 
slightly distended, thus giving a look of quick sensibility. 
She had one of those mobile mouths — the shape of a 
strung bow, in which the under lip goes up to meet 
the curve of the upper — which are said to be a sign of 
histrionic genius. Her eyes were blue, very clear and 
wide open, with an innocent irresponsible expression ; 
and her hair, profuse in quantity, was pale yellow, and 
had a sort of life of its own, each strand seeming to 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


11 


stand apart and to reflect the light like a filament of 
spun glass. 

All this London took in by a succession of quick 
glances ; at last he asked his neighbour, “ Who is that 
young lady ? ’’ The gentleman he addressed pulled out 
of his pocket a list of the passengers and proceeded to 
mark oflp and identify the row of people opposite, then 
he appealed to a ship’s officer on the other side of him 
for information, and finally turned to Lendon. 

“ Her name is Brett,” he said, ^‘Miss Beatrice Brett ; 
she’s a singer or a performer of some sort, and she’s 
going to join her relations in England and work the 
newspaper people over there, so that she can come 
back and make a boom with what they call a Eui’opean 
reputation. As if an American reputation wasn’t good 
enough ! But that’s the way with all of them. She’s 
travelling by herself, and she’s under the captain’s 
charge. Pretty, ain’t she ? — ^but too like a ghost to 
suit my style.” 

Lendon continued to glance from time to time at 
Miss Brett, and, as was natural to him, theories con- 
cerning her began to shape themselves in his mind. He 
was quite certain that she did not want to “make a 
boom.” He could imagine nothing more repugnant to 
. her temperament than the vulgar process of “ working 
the newspaper people.” He was sure, too, that she was 
not a singer— she hadn’t the sort of throat, he said to 
himself ; and certainly she was not one of those Western 


12 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


lecturing women who can spout forth Art, Hygiene, or 
Free Love as commercial opportunities present them- 
selves. Yet she had the expression of one absorbed in 
a purpose, whose mind was constantly dwelling upon her 
purpose, and who was determined at all labour to carry 
it through. He wondered what that purpose could be. 
The hand was playing, as it always does at dinner on 
the German line of boats. He knew the music ; it was 
a dreamy dance in a popular ballet, which had been new 
and the rage when he left London. He watched the 
girl’s face as she bent forward a little to listen. It gave 
him pleasure to see how her sensitive lip trembled, how 
her eyes gathered intensity, and her nervous fingers 
clasped and unclasped each other. He admired the way 
in which her hair grew, and wondered if it world be 
possible to make a sketch of her, which later he might 
work up into a fancy picture. 

As soon as dinner was over, Miss Brett got up and 
went into her cabin. The next day the weather was 
very fine, and during the band promenade nearly all the 
sick people found their way up on deck. Among them 
was Miss Brett. She came up leaning on the arm of 
the captain, who, having seated her in her long armchair 
and covered her with her buffalo robe, left her to the 
company of her books. She had two, Lendon noticed — 
one, a new novel with the pages uncut, the other a worn- 
looking volume which, from its sober Russia leather 
binding and quiet lettering, might have been taken for 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


13 


either the Bible or Shakespeare. Lendon jumped to the 
conclusion that it was Shakespeare, and, as it proved, 
was right. 

For a German band, the music that morniug was 
distinctly uninteresting. The noisy march, to which 
most of the promenaders kept time with a cheerful 
effort, seemed no more to Miss Brett’s taste than it was 
to London’s. She lay back for a little while and listened 
impatiently. Then she tried Shakespeare : he had stolen 
along the bulwarks, and a furtive glance had told him 
that the play was Macbeth. Presently she closed the 
volume with a sigh, and began to turn over the leaves 
of the novel. The paper-cutter slipped from her lap, 
and was carried along the deck. This was London’s 
opportunity ; he picked it up, and handed it back to her. 
She thanked him with a smile that was very sweet and 
childlike. She began to cut the leaves, but her mufflings 
embarrassed her. 

Allow me,” said Lendon, deferentially. He took the 
book from her, and began to cut it. with great deli- 
beration. As he did so, he made some observations on 
the weather and the aspect of the sea, which broke the 
ice between them. He ventured to inquire if she had 
suffered much during the rough weather. 

“ Oh I I am never ill,” she answered. " I like the 
sea ; I like it even when it is rough.” 

He remarked that he had not seen her in the saloon 
till yesterday. 


14 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


‘‘Oh,” she answered, with a charming little blush, 
“ I was very lazy. I had an interesting book, and felt 
a little shy. I ha-ve never crossed alone before. My 
people are to meet me at Southampton.” She went on 
to say that she had enjoyed l^'ing quiet in her cabin 
and being waited upon. “ Before I left America I had 
scarcely a moment to myself ; I had worked very hard.” 

He glanced at the book in the sober binding. ** You 
are a student of Shakespeare, T see ? ” 

“I am an actress,” she answered, as though the one 
thing implied the other. “ Of course I study Shakespeare; 
I study a great many dramatists.” 

“ And ? ”... he asked, and added, “ I wonder if 
theoretical knowledge is of much use ? ” 

“Oh, well,” she replied, laughing slightly, “I am 
bound to confess that my theories don’t serve me at 
critical moments. It is something outside oneself that 
really helps. But I always remember what a great 
actress told me once. Inspiration is a capricious god- 
dess, and it is well to have knowledge ready to tuke her 
place in case she should desert one in the hour of 
need.” 

“ Does she ever desert in the hour of need ? It 
always seemed to me that inspiration came with the 
desperate need.” 

“ Ah, you know all about it,” she said, and went on 
with the questioning air of a child. “ The captain told 
me your name. You are the artist, are you not ? ” 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


15 


He could not help being pleased at the indirect 
compliment which ,her use of the definite article 
conveyed. 

I know all about you,” she went on. “ My uncle, 
Professor Yiall, bought one of your pictures two years 
ago from a dealer in England. It is a desolate little bit 
of landscape — an autumn evening, a wintry-looking pool, 
with sedges and rushes bending over it, and dying leaves 
floating upon its surface. I like the picture, but it 
always makes me melancholy.” 

I think the picture is called ‘ A Pool of Melan- 
choly,’ ” he said. I remember it very well. I am glad 
that your uncle liked it, and still more glad that it 
pleases you ; but I am sorry that it makes you sad.” 

‘‘ I like everything that is sad,” she answered. “ It 
is my temperament. I adore moonlight ; I love grey 
skies, and wintry effects, and autumnal tints, and melan- 
choly music — ^all that is flickering, vague, and suggestive. 
It is the temperament of the artist. You have it too.” 

How do you know that ? ” he asked. 

“By your face — your eyes — something — I can’t tell 
you what. I have my intuitions ; I can always tell 
beforehand whether I shall like people or things.” 

“ Is it your intuition that you will like England and 
the English, might one ask ? Or perhaps you have been 
there already ? ” 

“ Ho, I have never yet been there.” 

“ Shall you like it ? ” 


16 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


“ Like it ? I love it I ” 

“ But you don’t know England.” 

“ Don’t I ? Yes, indeed I do. Why it’s the home 
and the cradle of all my race — the old dead-and-gone 
ones I mean. I feel like a girl going home.” 

r knew a scholar once,” said Lend on gravely, who 
said that when he first went to Greece — and he wasn’t 
a young man then, far from it— he felt that he had long 
been an exile, and that now he had come home.” 

Yes,” she said, thoughtfully, “ I think I can under- 
stand. I think I shall perhaps feel like that when I 
stand by some quiet English stream.” 

“What do you most wish to see in England ? ” 

“A stream, a country churchyard — the churchyard 
in Stratford perhaps, or the Gray’s Elegy one — and an 
old castle. And I want to hear the nightingale — 
Matthew Arnold’s nig^ingale.” 

“ Don’t you want to see the Queen, and to be presented 
at Court ?” he asked, with a smile. 

Oh no ; I haven’t thought about it. Why should I ? ” 
“ I thought that every American girl was like that.” 

“ I am not every American girl. But you must not 
believe in the caricatures of American guds. You must 
not disparage my countrywomen.” 

“ I greatly admire your countrywomen.” 

“I am glad,” she said simply. 

“Well, tell me what other things you want to see and 
hear in England.” 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


17 


“ No ; we have got out of tune, I think.” She sank 
back in her chair with a little sigh as if she were disap- 
pointed. He felt a pang of something like guilt. How 
had he jarred upon her ? He wondered if he ought to 
go away. In fact, he moved a few steps towards the 
bulwarks, and then came back. A movement of hers, 
an ineffectual effort to tuck her buffalo robe a little more 
closely round her, gave him an excuse for going to her 
aid. “ Thank you,” she said, and was silent again. He 
lingered. Presently she asked abruptly, “ Ho you know 
Miravoglia ? ” 

“ Miravoglia ? ” he repeated. 

“The artist, the musician, the person who trains young 
actresses. I am going to him. He saw me act once, at 
Philadelphia, and he was impressed. He advised me. 
Now I am going to take his advice. Then I was not 
of age, and my guardian. Professor Yiall, had an objec- 
tion to my going on the stage; but during these two 
years I have done my best to train myself,” 

“ And your guardian has relented ? ” 

“ Oh, he had no very rooted objection ; it was on 
psychological grounds. My uncle is a great psychologist. 
Lately he has been so much occupied with his new 
invention that he has not thought much of me.” 

“ And what is the invention ? ” 

“ You haven’t heard of it ? But you soon will, and I 
won’t forestall my uncle’s pleasure in describing it to 
you. We are sure to meet in London.” 


18 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ALKIAN. 


“There are many eddies and currents in London 
society,” said Lendon. “ How can I be certain of such 
good fortune ? ” 

“But you are an artist; and I — I am an artist, 
Miravoglia is an artist. All artists know each other in 
London — at least, so Mrs. Walcot Yalbry tells me — 

“Ah, I know Mrs. Walcot Yalbry,” said Lendon. 

“There. Did I. not say? We shall meet at Mrs. 
Walcot Yalbry’s. I have known her in America, of 
course. She adores artists, and she is interested in every- 
thing that is mystic and out of the common. Therefore, 
naturally, she is interested in my uncle.” 

“And you?” asked Lendon. “Are you a mystic 
too ? ” 

The girl seemed to consider for a moment, and looked 
at him seriously with a certain questioning in her eyes. 
It was clear to him, however, that she was not in doubt 
as to her own views on the subject, but rather as to the 
manner in which he might receive them. 

“Everyone is a mystic,” she answered gravely. 
“ Everyone, that is, who feels and thinks, and analyzes 
feelings and thoughts — artists most peculiarly so. Surely 
you must often have been conscious of forces within you 
which haye come from outside yourself ? ” 

“ Ah I ” he said, “ that is true ; and more than once I 
have solved the mystery of some unaccountable impulse, 
some prompting to evil, by the exploded theory of ghostly 
possession. Ghosts ! Do you know Ibsen’s fine lines ? ” 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


19 


Yes and she recited, with a dramatic intensity which 
took him by surprise, Mrs. Alving’s speech to the Pastor. 

** Well,” he said, “ it is the ghosts of dead faiths, dead 
conventions, dead traditions, which turn us this way and 
that, and more or less determine our lives.” 

“I did not mean such forces as those,” she replied. 

No, I would allow no dead faith to rule my life. I 
meant, Mr. Lendon, that you and I ought to be proud 
and happy that we are artists ; for Art is the door 
through which the undying dead ones can come into our 
lives and teach us how to move our world as they 
themselves once moved theirs. If ever I am a great 
actress, as indeed I think I shall be some day, it will 
not be I myself who have any power, but the ghosts who 
have given to me of theirs.” 

“ That is a fanciful theory. Miss Brett,” said Lendon. 
“ Don’t you think that it may be a morbid one ? ” 

“Morbid! Oh I morbid!” she repeated with fine 
scorn. “I hate that word morbid. It is such a cant 
phrase. I suppose that all the people of genius, in the 
world or out of it, who ever moved souls to enthusiasm 
were told at some time or other, by some wise person or 
other, that they were— morbid. Pray Heaven give me 
morbidness I That is all I say.” 

“ No ! no ! ” he exclaimed ; “ I won’t say Amen to 
that impious supplication.” 

She laughed. “ Well,” she said, “ I think I shall go 
down to my cabin, for I am feeling a little shivery ; and 


20 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


if you will take me as far as the companion, I shall be 
grateful.” 

He gave her his arm, and took charge of her rug and 
various other belongings. 

“ But you will let me convince you, some time soon, 
that I meant no disrespect to genius by refusing to 
allow that it is morbid ? ” 

She nodded and laughed again. “You don’t mean 
it; you don’t mean it!” she cried.^ “You mean just 
what I mean, only you call it by another name. You 
are just as bad as the worst of them, if you hke to put it 
in that way. You’re just as open to — to influences and 
impulses and misdirected enthusiasms as the people you 
pretend to despise. Why, you are utterly morbid, or you 
could never have painted ‘ The Pool of Melancholy.’ ” 

“There’s something in that,” said Lendon to himself, 
as he paced the deck, after he had seen her to the door 
of her cabin. “ The curse of the artist temperament is on 
me as fatally almost as upon Miss Beatrice Brett herself.” 

He watched for the young actress for the rest of the 
day, but she did not reappear. Nor was she on deck at 
promenade time the following morning. Tc irked him 
to remember that in forty-eight hours they were due at 
Southampton. He put artfully veiled questions to his 
communicative neighbour at talle-d'hote ; and having 
set him on 'the trail, very soon elicited through him 
the information that Miss Brett had caught a slight 
cold, and was not likely to show herself above while the 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


21 


weather continued stormy. It had come on to blow 
again, and London began to think the Fates were against 
any practical outcome from his already strong interest in 
the young actress. 

He found her at last, however, in the reading-room, 
where she was sitting very becomingly, muffled in furs 
and with a book in her hand. She smiled and bowed^ 
and, in answer to his inquiries, told him she was better, 
and that she had caught cold, and was suffering from 
hoarseness. “ And you know,’’ she added, ‘‘ an actress 
is bound to be careful of her voice, for it is the best 
part of her stock in trade.” 

She asked him when they should get in, and he told 
her that it would be late that night, and ventured to 
inquire whether any one would meet her, and if he 
might presume on his acquaintanceship with her friend 
Mrs. Walcot Yalbry, and offer his help in the Custom 
House, which, as he put it, was an awkward business 
for a lady who was not very strong. 

“Oh,” she answered, “my people will be there to 
meet me, and they wiU arrange everything; but thank 
you all the same.” 

“ I hope,” he said, a little shyly, “ that I may look 
forward to being presented to Professor Yiall.” 

“ Why, certainly,” she answered : “ if you know Mrs. 
Walcot Yalbry, you will see a great deal of my uncle. 
She has a high opinion of the Professor and of his 
discovery.” 


22 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


“Don’t think me very ignorant,” said Lendon, “but 
will you tell me what is your uncle’s particular field of 
scientific investigation. I don’t go in much for that 
sort of thing,” he went on apologetically ; “ I think we 
painters are, of all people, the narrowest in our sym- 
pathies and interests ; we shut ourselves up in our 
studios, or potter along through aesthetic by-ways, or 
else cut ourselves off from everything, as I have done 
this last year or so, and go off to the wilds in search of 
a new sensation.” 

She looked at him a little wistfully. “ I should have 
thought,” she said, “ that you would have found plenty 
of sensations in London.” 

He laughed. “Well, but your uncle, the Professor, 
what is his line ? ” 

“Magnetic-Dynamics,” she answered seriously, and 
then suddenly laughed like a child at his puzzled 
look. “Oh, you will find out all about it soon 
enough. It is something: verv imnortant, I assure 
you.” 

“I have no doubt of that. May I call upon you in 
London? and perhaps,” he went on eagerly, “if you 
care for pictures and sights, and that sort of thing, 1 
have friends who would be delighted — and I should like 
to show you my studio when it is in order again, if you 
would let me.” 

“I am going to be dreadfully hard at work,” she 
answered ; “ but you are very kind, and, if there’s time, 


A MEETING ON THE SEA. 


23 


I should like it very much. I should like in any case 
to see your studio.” 

He was obliged to be content with this sort of 
indefinite promise ; and just then the captain came up 
and began talking to Miss Brett in German— a language 
which she appeared to speak fluently. He had no 
further conversation with her before the arrival at 
Southampton, and in the hurry and confusion of land- 
ing he lost sight of her, and to his infinite regret had 
not even the satisfaction of bidding her good-by. 


24 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


CHAPTER 11 
The Improvisatricb. 

On the journey from Southampton to London, during 
which the image of the young actress obtruded itself 
somewhat disquietingly, Lendon assured himself that the 
serious business of home-coming and resettling himself 
in his ordinary routine of occupation would leave him 
but little leisure for romantic speculations about Miss 
Beatrice Brett. He was a little ashamed of the sudden 
interest with which she had inspired him, for he had 
been indulging of late in a lofty, philosophic indif- 
ference, not to say scorn of the charms of womanhood, 
and had made up his mind that for him emotional 
disturbance was a matter of the past. He had acted 
out his drama, had lived through his disillusionment, 
as he fancied, and it was humiliating to find himself as 
susceptible still to the light of a pair of bright eyes as 
ever he had been in the old days before the first had 
turned to ashes, and he had gone madly off to the New 
World to heal his heart’s wound. It was this feeling 
which made him determine that he would not think of 
her, would not make any special effort to find out her 


THE IMPROVISATEICE. 


25 


whereabouts, would not call upon Mrs. Walcot Valbry, 
would not search the papers for any mention of the 
Professor and his discovery in magnetic-dynamics (what- 
ever that might mean), or of the trumpet praises which 
pique curiosity as to any forthcoming debutante on the 
London stage. As a matter of fact, he did think a 
good deal about her, nevertheless, and he never saw 
the turn of a particularly slender throat, the shape of 
an unusually delicate form, or the back of a golden 
head in front of him in a theatre-stall or in the street, 
without a sudden inward flutter and desperate, if mo- 
mentary, wonderment whether at last kindly chance 
were about to throw them together. He never did 
come across her, however, nor had he any means of 
finding out where she lived. He plunged into business 
and pleasure, and tried to forget her. One morning 
it gave him an odd thrill to receive a note from her, 
enclosing a card of invitation from Mrs. Walcot Valbry, 
that American lady of whom they had spoken, and who 
was, indeed, well known in the upper Bohemia of 
London. The inscription on the card ran — 

■ “ Mrs. Walcot Valbry 
At home 

Wednesday, February 20th, at 9.30. 

Fleetwood House, West Kensington. 

‘^To meet Professor Viall (Inventor of the Viall- 
Motor) and Miss Beatrice Brett (the celebrated American 
Hmprovisatrice 


0 


26 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


The note said — 

“ Dear Mr. Lendon, 

“ Do come ; though I warn you that I am not 
inclined to do the ‘ Improvisatrice,’ consciously at any 
rate, for any one ; and I am not celebrated yet. But, 
as I told you, I mean to be by-and-by. We have gotten 
charming rooms, and I am preparing for my London 
Mhuty and sometimes I don’t seem to know which is 
me and which is . Never mind ; I’ll explain, per- 

haps, some day. 

“Mrs. Cubison and Professor Viall send their kind 
regards ; 

“ And I am, yours sincerely, 

“ Beatrice Brett.” 

Lendon despatched a prompt acceptance of Mrs. 
Walcot Yalbry’s invitation. He would have liked to 
write also to Miss Brett, but with characteristic care- 
lessness — or could it be intention? she had omitted to 
name the locality of their charming rooms. And he 
did not venture upon addressing her at the house of 
Mrs. Yalbry. 

The cultivation of cheap celebrity is a disease in upper 
Bohemia, where patrons and patronised, inviters and 
invitees, have their very being, socially and commercially, 
in the easily bought advertisement which sells their 
wares and trumpets them into a third-rate notoriety. 
Mrs. Walcot Yalbry was rich enough to despise para- 


THE IMPEOVISATRICE. 


27 


graphists; nevertheless, paragraphists abounded at her 
“ at Home and representative Bohemia — mummers, 
novelists, poets, artists, dilettanti members of parliament, 
and sensation-hunting visitants from a more aristocratic 
sphere, made a brave show in the spacious drawing- 
rooms. Just outside the most prominent door, Mrs. 
Walcot Yalbry herself, large, bediamonded, with the 
crisp, abundant white hair and yellow crumpled face 
familiar to the casual traveller in the parlours of New 
York hotels, stood, and in an absent manner received 
her guests. 

As Lendon came on to the landing she was saying, 
“You are interested in the Yiall-Motor ?” to a young- 
old society man, with a tired expression and a neatly 
trimmed Yandyke beard, who counter-queried — 

“What is the Yiall-Motor ?” 

“Well, I did presume you knew that. Sir Donald!^* 
replied the American lady, severely. “ The Yiall-Motor 
is— everything. It’s science; it’s religion; it’s Bulwer 
Lytton’s Yrill;” and she shook hands vaguely at the 
same time with Lendon, adding, “You know Professor 
Yiall and Miss Beatrice Brett, don’t you? I needn’t 
present you.” 

“Is it the Yiall-Motor or the Impi:ovisatrice that 
brings you here, Lendon?” said the gentleman called 
Sir Donald, drawing Lendon back into a recess on the 
other side of the door. 

“ Both,” returned Lendon, laconically. 


28 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


‘‘A combination of science and beauty!” London’s 
eyes roved. “ You are looking for her. We are at the 
wrong door. She is in the inner room, which our hostess 
guards. By the way, you haven’t forgotten that you 
sup with me at twelve to-night ?” 

“Ah!” London had indeed forgotten. 

“Would it be possible to transfer the attraction from 
here to my house in Eaton Square ? Please present me 
by-and-by.” 

“ At once if you wish it.” 

“No ; I am glued to the door till Countess Adrian 
arrives.” 

“Countess Adrian ! The lady of the lawsuit ?” 

“ The lady who has been the victim of a cowardly 
and infamous husband — ^yes.” 

“But the marriage was declared invalid,” said London, 
thoughtlessly. “ Wasn’t it the general opinion that 
Countess Adrian — as she still seems to call herself — was 
playing a bold game ? ” 

“Stop!” said Sir Donald, with scarcely a change of 
inflexion in his apathetic voice. “ I had better tell you 
that Countess Adrian has honoured me by consenting to 
become my wife.” 

“ Urquhart ! A million pardons. I read the report 
of the trial in America, and you know what newspapers 
are there. I spoke as I had no right to speak — 
on the vaguest impression. How can I prove my 
regret ? ” 


THE IMPROVISATEICE. 


29 


“By letting me present you to Countess Adrian 
when she comes, and by forgetting everything to her 
disadvantage that you have ever heard,” replied 
Urquhart graciously. “ See, there is a rift in’ the 
crowd, and if I am not mistaken the Improvisatrice 
wishes you to pay your respects.” 

“Lendon,” whispered Phil Bonhote, a young jour- 
nalist, who at the moment pressed up against him, “ if 
they grow them like this I shall take shares in the 
Yiall-Motor.” 

Len don’s heart gave a bound as he suddenly became 
aware that Beatrice Brett was close to him, that she 
was smiling seriously at him, and, by an almost unno- 
ticeable movement of her small hand, was beckoning 
him to approach. His first feeling was a sort of surprise 
and dazzlement that she was so much more beautiful 
than even love’s memory had painted her. Of course 
he had never before seen her in evening dress, and her 
throat and arms were finely formed and had the white- 
ness — not of marble, but of a stephanotis petal. There 
was about her a girlish radiance which he had not 
associated with her on the steamer. Her eyes were 
alight as if with some secret fire, her golden hair was 
dressed in a more elaborate fashion ; she swayed 
nervously to and fro a great feather fan, and in the 
same hand, held with the fan, she carried a bunch of 
lilies of the valley tied loosely in the American manner 
with a knot of white ribbon. He found himseK won- 


30 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


dering seriously what young admirer had sent her the 
flowers, and then he realised suddenly that he was in 
love with her — in love with this girl to whom he had 
only spoken twice before in his life. 

She was quite unembarrassed. She was not in love 
with him. Oh, no ; she was not the sort of girl to fall 
of a sudden in love with anyone. She was devoted to 
her art for one thing. She was at the age, of the 
temperament, in the mood when art and ambition are 
consuming* passions and allow but little play to any 
more strictly human emotion. Of course, as indeed he 
had hinted, she was inclined to be morbid, and she was 
self-analytical, and cold as a vestal, but yet she had a 
keen artistic curiosity and she was very sweet and very 
womanly, though she tried to persuade herself and 
others that she was an altogether abnormal creature. 
She was interested in his ardent admiration, and on the 
whole she was touched and excited and altogether glad 
to see him once more. 

Somebody stepped up before Lendon and kept her for 
a moment or two in c mversation. There appeared to 
be a sudden stir and excitement in her neighbourhood, 
and when Lendon moved eagerly forward, though she 
smiled again, she made a slight movement as if bidding 
him wait. He saw that Mrs. Walcot Yalbry was holding 
her hand persuasively and speaking in a low tone as if 
urging her to comply with some request. Mrs. Yalbry 
was struck by the expression of the girl’s eyes and the 


THE IMPEOVISATRICIV 


81 


sweet smile of recognition directed towards some farther 
object, and her look following that of Beatrice encoun- 
tered Lendon. 

“ Ah ! ” she exclaimed, “ here’s somebody who knows 
the people and will tell you it is all for your advantage. 
Mr. Lendon, we want the weight of your influence. 
Come along.” 

Lendon approached and took Beatrice’s hand. ^‘What 
is my influence required for ? ” he asked. “ Miss Brett, 
I hope that your cold is quite well.” 

“ Yes, thank you,” she replied frankly. “ I told you 
we should meet here ; but you know you haven’t got any 
influence ; we don’t think alike. If I do what they 
want, you’d say I am morbid.” 

That unlucky word,” said Lendon, “ I take it back. 
I know what Mrs. Walcot Yalbry means. Cosway Keele 
is here, and half-a-dozen of the principal critics. Don’t 
recite unless you are quite sure of yourself, and unless 
you want to be the talk of the Garrick to-night, and 
to be in all the society papers of the week.” 

“ That’s what I’ve been saying to the Professor,” said 
Mrs. Walcot Yalbry, he says she is sure of herself.” 

A tall lean gentleman standing by had poked his 
head forward and was scrutinizing Lendon with interest. 
“ You hear Mr. Lendon’s opinion,” Mrs. Yalbry said ; 

you see it is important.” 

“Yery important,” he assented, and added interro- 
gatively, ** Mr. Lendon ?” 


32 


THE SOUti OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


Mr. Lendon is hand-and-glove with the critics. He 
writes plays himself sometimes, and he designs Cosway 
Keele’s costumes. You two hav’nt met yet. Why, it’s 
lovely for you to meet here. He’s just lovely,” she 
added vaguely, her eyes fixed upon a point halfway 
between the tall gentleman and the painter, so that it 
was not directly evident to which she referred. 

“Professor Yiall, Mr. Lendon. Professor Yiall is * 
Miss Brett’s uncle.” 

Lendon bowed and shook hands, first with the 
Professor and then with a small lady beside him, whom 
the Professor introduced as “My sister, Mrs. Cubison.” 

Miss Brett’s guardians presented a curious contrast 
to one another. The Professor was a man of about 
sixty, with straight iron-grey hair, a very long nose, and 
an even disproportionately long upper hp and chin. 
His forehead was high and naiTOw. His height could 
not have been less than six feet four or five inches, and 
with his narrow shoulders — one a little lower than the 
other— and his spare frame, he made one think somehow 
of an ill-balanced obelisk.; whereas his sister, Mrs. 
Cubison, resembled nothing so much as a fat pouter 
pigeon, so short was she, so plump and so common- 
place and comforting, 

“Oh, she’s always sure of herself,” said Mrs. Cubison. 
“There’s no fear of Beaty’s breaking down. They 
always carry her through.” 

“Then why should there be so much fuss?” said 


THE niPEOVISATEICE. 


33 


Mrs. Walcot Yalbry. “ You are going to do it, 
Beatrice ?” 

“ Yes,” replied the girl, composedly ; I am going 
to do it.” 

“That’s right. Now you’U astonish us all. I’ll 
leave you to look after her, Mr. Lendon — you and the 
Professor, for I see some new people coming,” and she 
hurried off to her station at the door. 

The Professor was not thinking just now of Beatrice. 
“Why, it’s Maddox Challis,” he said, craning his 
head. 

“ Maddox Challis I ” repeated Lendon. “ I thought 
he was in Palestine.” 

“I mean the Occultist,” said the Professor, with the 
deepest interest. “ Do you know him ? ” 

“No — yes, ’’Lendon answered. “Every one knows 
Maddox Challis — in one sense. In another, no one 
knows him.” 

“That is true,” assented the Professor. “The 
ordinary London diner-out would not know Maddox 
Challis.” 

“ Mr. Lendon is not the ordinary London diner-out,” 
said Beatrice Brett. 

“ Thank you,” he said. A glance of sympathy passed 
between them. “ Did you mean,” he asked, “ that you 
are really going to play the Improvisatrice ; and since 
Mr. Walcot Yalbry put you in my charge, tell me what 
I am to do.” 


34 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


Take me to some place where I can be quiet for a 
few minutes,” she answered. 

He gave her his arm, and piloted her across the room. 
“ T may talk to you some time this evening ?” he asked. 
“ I have so much I want to say to you, and then there’s 
the visit to my studio, we must arrange that.” 

She looked troubled and preoccupied and withdrew 
her arm, standing still before him. ‘‘I can’t think of 
anything now, but what I am going to do. T don’t 
know why I want to do it, but I can’t help* it; it’s been 
in me all day, making me so restless.” 

Mrs. Walcot Yalbry, who had rejoined the Professor, 
came up with him at that moment and put Beatrice’s 
arm within hers as she whispered something in the 
girl’s ear. 

“Yes, I will come,” said Beatrice. She turned to 
London with a look he had never yet seen on her face 
— a hushed, breathless, awed look, and said in a very 
low voice : 

“ I made sure I wouldn’t act to-night, but it’s stronger 
than I am. Wait ; I’ll talk to you by and by.” 

She moved on, led by Mrs. Walcot Yalbry, and passed 
between the heavy velvet curtains that divided a farther 
room from that in which most of the guests were 
assembled. The crowd was very dense; and on Mrs. 
Yalbry’s reappearance, there was a momentary silence, 
and presently the word went round that the Improvisa- 
trice was about to do one of the inspirational scenes for 


THE IMPROVISATRICE. 


35 


which she was already celebrated in America. The 
dramatic stars who were present looked at each other, at 
once interested and contemptuous. Two actor-managers 
simultaneously changed their positions and crossed to 
where they would be more advantageously placed for 
seeing the performance. Miravoglia, who had helped to 
train Aimee Deselees, said aloud, I know her ; she is 
my pupil. Inspiration ! Dead spirits ! Bah I I say 
that is living genius.” 

As the assemblage stood waiting, with eyes bent 
towards the closed curtain, there was a rustle of heavy 
brocade near the door, an announcement distinctly 
audible, Countess Adrian,” and then that sudden stir 
of heads and shoulders which tells of an instantly 
diverted cmdosity. Lendon turned too, and for the 
first time saw the woman whom, somewhat less than a 
year ago, a came celebre had made famous. 

Was she beautiful ? No. He remembered vaguely 
to have heard her described as “La belle Laide.” She 
was far too large, too tall, too bounteously made for 
beauty. But then, how perfectly she was proportioned, 
and what a graceful snake-like way she had of moving, 
and what a grand carriage of head and magnificence 
of bust ! Her eyes were too close together. But the 
eyes ! Surely they might have illustrated Professor 
Yiall’s theory of Magnetic Dynamics. They were all 
pupil and yellow light. When the pupil dilated, there 
was nothing else; when it contracted, the iris showed 


36 


TKE SOTJL OF COTJKTESS ADRIAN. 


queer golden gleams, like those in the eyes of some 
savage animal. Her features were too irregular. But 
what matter of that, when they were so full of power 
and passion? And who cared that the rich red lips, 
parted so as to show a double row of small glistening 
teeth, were so red and so ripe as to suggest sense rather 
than soul ? Soul somehow was the last attribute one 
would associate with Countess Adrian. A glorious 
creature certainly — an intellectual creature — a creature 
with wiU, emotion, force of character, noble instinct it 
might be ; but always of the flesh, and not of the spirit. 
Countess Adrian a disembodied thing ! That splendid, 
glowing vitality quenched for ever 1 Impossible ! 

She was dressed peculiarly in a gown of some stiff, 
red, expensive fabric, that huug in massive folds about 
her. The jewels she wore were barbaric looking — a 
great uncut ruby at her breast, and valuable catseyes, 
set in diamonds, on her neck and in her black hair. 
She carried a big fan of deep yellow ostrich feathers, 
with glittering sticks. 

“It isn’t really safe to come to houses like this, 
though they are amusing,” observed a thin woman in 
a tiara, on London’s right. She was a great lady, to 
whom the Improvisatrice had acted as a “ draw.” “ I 
used to know her in Paris — every one did, till it was dis- 
covered that she was a fraud — no more married to Count 
Adrian than I am. Of course, nobody can know her 
now.” 




THE IMPKOVISATEICE. 


37 


Lendon murmured something about her being a victim 
to circumstances. 

“Victim to fiddlesticks!” pursued the irate great lady. 
“Do you suppose she didn’t know that sham ceremony 
meant nothing ? Does she look as if a nincompoop 
like Adrian could bamboozle her ? ” 

The argument seemed unanswerable. Just then there 
was a cry of “ Silence, please ! ” and the drawn curtains 
disclosed Beatrice Brett. 

Is this Beatrice Brett — this strange woman, cowering 
in the stillness of absolute misery, unconscious of 
herself, unconscious of her surroundings — blank despair 
in her eyes, blank despair on her white mask-like 
features, despair and doom in the rigid lips and the tense 
limbs ? She is alone in the condemned cell. Death 
on the scaffold to-morrow, or death to-night by the 
poison which was her lover’s last gift — which ? And 
now she moves — memory awakes. The past comes back. 
The drama is re-enacted. She lives again through 
dead days — the convent, the marriage— a lamb led to 
slaughter — one more maiden sacrificed to the elderly 
debauchee. Then, love — white in its bud, red passion 
in its growth. Temptation. Crime. She secretly kills 
the loathed husband. And now there is no barrier 
between her and the man of her heart — the man who, 
honouring her, will not gain her through dishonour, 
. . . . All this in broken soliloquy and gesture — 

quiet at first, girlishly tender, piteously hpman j and 


38 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAH. 


then always repressed, reaching the climax of a tragedy, 
than which no tragedy could be more grim. It is the 
moment in which her lover’s arms first clasp her as 
his promised bride. His kiss is on her lips. She 
trembles with a holy ecstasy. ... Ah! . . . 
It is Hell, not Heaven ! Eapture becomes hori’or un- 
imaginable. The punishment is from beyond the grave. 
A ghost has come forth to be its own avenger. The 
arms which encircle her are dead arms. The lips that 
press hers are the lips of a corpse. It is her murdered 
husband who, embodied in her living lover, claims her 

for his wife She kneels. She cries for 

mercy. In her agony, the horrible confession is made. 
And now, silence ... 

A long breath of pent emotion heaved through the 
audience. Lendon became conscious of a movement 
behind him. A woman’s voice whispered in an audible 
sibilant whisper, ‘‘ She shall feel me.” He turned in- 
voluntarily. Countess Adrian was standing with her 
head bent a little forward, and her eyes fixed in a gaze 
of the most extraordinary intensity on the young 
actress’s face. 

There was nothing malignant in the look. It ex- 
pressed thoughtful curiosity and eager desire of 
dominance, such as might be seen in some wrestler, not 
certain of mastery, who, calculating his resources, calls 
will-force to his aid in a supreme effort for victory. 

If Countess Adrian’s object were to test her power by 


THE IMPROYISATEICE. 


89 


quenching the girl’s inspiration and forcing her soul 
back to the realm of commonplace, she succeeded in her 
attempt. No words came to break the pause. The 
actress gave a long shiver. Life and light went out of 
her face. The guilty woman, in her passion of love and 
terror and remorse, had vanished. There remained a 
shrinking child, dazed by some bewildering sight or 
sound, helpless and incapable. She tottered ; a low 
moaning cry broke from her lips, and she fell forward 
insensible. 

Lendon leaped to his feet and, forcing himself to the 
front, reached the prostrate girl just as Professor Viall, 
with quiet presence of mind, stepped within the arch 
and drew down the heavy curtains. Lendon knew 
nothing for a moment but that he was holding her in 
his arms, and that her golden hair brushed his face. 
People pressed into the room. There were confused 
inquiries and ejaculations, and a doctor proffered his 
services. But Professor Yiall waved them all away with 
an authoritative air — all except one man, who held his 
place, also as if with authority, and who looked at the 
young actress as she lay in Lendon’s arms with an 
expression of thoughtful interest. 

“ This is not an ordinary seizure,” he said quietly. 

If you will allow me to try some magnetic passes, I 
think I can do good. My name is Maddox Challis, and I 
am supposed to have some skill in the higher magnetism.” 

'‘The name and works of Maddox Challis are very 


40 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADHIAN. 


familiar to me,” said the Professor. “Jt has long been 
my wish to meet one of whom I have read and heard 
so much, and with whose pursuits I am to a certain 
extent identified, for I also am a humble student of 
Occultism. I have been accustomed to use magnetism 
in the treatment of my niece, and I now readily yield 
to a higher power than mine.” 

Maddox Challis bowed only in reply to the Professor’s 
elaborate address, and, opening the door of the tiny 
boudoir which led out of the room in which they were, 
motioned to London to carry his burden thither. 
Presently the girl was lying upon a sofa, with Mrs. 
Cubison loosening her dress and Mr. Challis makiug 
passes over her, extending and drawing back his arms 
slowly every now and then with a jerky movement of 
his fingers, plucking, as it were, something invisible from 
her and throwing it away. She revived almost im- 
mediately. The deathly look left her face. She drew a 
deep sigh and opened her eyes. They rested on the 
stranger’s face with a startled gaze ; but he did not 
pause for an instant from his monotonous passes, and 
after a minute or two the look of bewilderment gave 
place to an expression of relief, and with another sigh 
she again closed her eyes. A faint flush crept into her 
cheek, and her breathing became soft and regular. 
Maddox Challis discontinued his passes. He laid his 
hand for a moment on the girl’s forehead, then, without 
a word, left the room. 


THE IMPROVISATEICE. 


41 


The Professor seemed disappointed. His eyes followed 
Challis till the door closed, then he turned and watched 
Beatrice. 

“ She will he all right now,” he said. “ I presume it 
was the mixed magnetism that upset her.” 

“Ho,” said Mrs. Oubison, mysteriously; “it was 
the influences. She encourages them. Pm sure I don’t 
wonder, considering what they do for her. It might 
have been Pachel who controlled her, you know. I never 
saw her finer than she was to-night.” 

“ Influences ? ” repeated Lendon in a puzzled tone. 

“ You’re not troubled with them ? ” remarked Mrs. 
Oubison, composedly. 

“Ho,” answered Lendon. 

“Ah, perhaps you don’t come of an inspirational 
family, as we do. It has its drawbacks. Beaty’s mother 
used to suffer from influences. Hers weren’t always 
satisfactory. They had a very bad effect on Beaty’s 
mother,” Mrs. Oubison added, and paused. 

“ They drove her out of her mind,” said the Professor, 
drearily. 

“ But, good Heavens ! you don’t mean that there is 
any danger ?” exclaimed Lendon. 

“ Well, I don’t know that I can explain,” began the 
Professor. 

“ Oh, you needn’t mind Mr. Lendon,” put in Mrs. 
Oubison. “ He’s inspirational himself — in a certain sense. 
All artists must be inspirational, you know, more or less, 

D 


42 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


and of course they attract artistic spirits into their 
sphere.” 

Lendon laughed. “ Do you mean that the influences 
are dead people ? ” he a^ked. 

Mrs. Cuhison nodded. The Professor stroked his long 
upper lip. 

“ Why, certainly,” he said. “ Of course, there’s 
danger ; but what’s the use of worrying over what is 
part of your temperament ? We have the misfortune 
to be a family of mediums. It is a disease — hereditary, 
like consumption and other things. I’ve got over it* 
The Yiall-Motor helped me through. Acting will be 
Beaty’s safeguard. Her mother was an idle woman, and 
she fell in love and died in an asylum. Beaty is dijfferent. 
As long as she keeps real grip on her work she has 
nothing to be afraid of.” 

“ Nothing to be afraid of!” Lendon repeated vaguely. 

“ Oh, yes, she’ll come all right,” pursued the Professor. 

They wont hurt her while she sticks to Art. The 
danger is of her falling in with some living influence 
that might prove stronger than the dead ones.” 

“ You mean — if she should marry ? ” timidly suggested 
Lendon. 

*‘Well, I don’t know that I meant that altogether. 
She’ll have to take her chance anyhow. What is to 
be, will be, you know,” answered the Professor, with 
cheerful fatalism. It would be curious, wouldn’t it, if 
one could know which of them it was to-night,” he added, 


THE IMPROVISATRICE. 


43 


as if an idea had struck him — Rachel or Siddons, or 
perhaps poor Aimee Desclees ?” 

“ Ah,” said Lendou again, with his little laugh, which 
was half nervous, “ I have no doubt any of our young 
actresses would gladly run some risk for the sake of being 
able to summon such distinguished persons as familiar 
spirits.” 

Do you suppose they would be at the beck of any 
young actress ? My dear sir,” said the Professor solemnly, 
“ perhaps you don’t remember Schiller’s description of 
certain exceptional natures for which ‘too easily is ripped 
open the kingdom of the ghosts’ — that’s the literal 
translation, I believe. Those words are another phrase for 
genius. What is genius ?” he went on fervidly. “ She 
hasn’t got it” (indicating Mrs. Cubison, who was 
preening herself in her pouter-pigeon fashion). 
haven’t got it. You haven’t got it — at least, I beg your 
pardon, but I should guess not. My niece has it, 
though ; and it’s nothing but the unconscious power of 
access to the highest influences of the past — a power as 
rare as are the Talmas and the Siddons themselves. 
It’s the open door through which these bodiless beings 
from the other side can enter into our world again — the 
body by which they can vent their unsatisfied cravings 
and pent-up aspirations. Art is a passion as high and 
as low as other passions. I have no doubt it was a satis- 
faction to poor Desclees— if it was she— to hear again 
the applause that was once her nightly food.’' He paused. 


44 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


for at this moment the girl stirred. “ We’ll talk of 
this some other time,” he said. 

Beatrice raised herself as he spoke, and looked at him 
with steady eyes. She seemed now to have quite 
recovered from her strange attack. ‘‘I will talk to 
Mr. Lendon,” she said. Uncle, I want you to go back 
to those people and tell them — oh, tell them anything. 
They’ve seen enough to show them I can act. They 
won't want me any more. Let us go home when you 
have explained why I fainted.’^ 

“ Why dzd you faint, Beaty ?” Mrs. Cubison questioned, 
when the Professor had, without further words, left the 
room. 

She gave a shudder and looked at Lendon. “ Who is 
that woman ?” she asked, taking no notice of her aunt. 

“ Countess Adrian,” he answered at once. 

“I knew that you would know. Is she a friend of 
yours ? ” 

‘‘ She is going to marry a friend of mine,” he replied. 

The girl was silent. 

“But you haven’t told us why you fainted, Beaty,” 
said Mrs. Cubison. 

‘‘Nor ever shall, I fancy, Marmy dear, for that’s one 
of the mysterious things in earth and heaven that are 
beyond my understanding.” She got up from the sofa 
as she spoke, and, going to the mantel-piece by which 
Lendon was standing, leaned her elbow upon it and 
stood looking at him with a troubled, questioning ex- 


THE IMPEOVISATRICE. 


45 


pression. He uttered some anxious words about her 
health, but she stopped him. 

“Ho, never mind. I’m quite well now. Mr. Lendon, 
would you do something for me ? ” 

“I would do anything in this world for you,” he 
answered fervently. 

She blushed and drooped her eyes, and for the first 
time a delicious hope dawned within him. 

“ Will you ask Countess Adrian to leave me alone ? ” 

“ But you have strength to overcome this fancy,” he 
began vehemently. 

“ It is no fancy ; it’s something real.” She shuddered 
again. “ If Countess Adrian came to the theatre and 
looked at me like that when I was acting, I should 
break down — as I did to-night. And I think that would 
kill me. My art is all the world to me. I live for it ; 
I live in it. Mr. Lendon — no, don’t speak, listen — I 
have a feeling that you could stand between me and — 
and Countess Adrian.” 

“ Between you and everything that could vex or harm 
you, if you would only let me. I can — and I will. 
Miss Brett, trust me.” 

She put out her hand and let him hold it in his for 
a moment. 

“Yes, I will trust you. I can’t tell you now all that I 
want to say. You must go to the others, and we will 
go home. Good night ! ” 

“ But I may come to you ? ” 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


4tt 


“ Oh yes. Marmy will be glad, and so shall I. In 
the evenings, please. I’m working all day. Miravoglia 
is directing my lessons. Marmy will give you the 
address.” 

Mrs. Cubison took out a card from her pocket-book 
and gave it to him. The young man received it as 
though it had been a key to the gates of Paradise — as 
indeed it seemed to his excited fancy just then. And 
then he bade them good night. 


A. MODERN MTSTIO. 


47 


CHAPTEE III. 

A Modern Mystic. 

A STRONG impression had been created by Miss Beatrice 
Brett’s performance, which its abrupt and somewhat 
tragic termination appeared to have strengther.ed rather 
than lessened. The party broke up very soon after- 
wards, and Mrs. Walcot Yalbry had the agreeable con- 
viction of having furnished Bohemia with a sensation. 
Later on, the subject was freely discussed at Sir Donald 
Urquhart’s supper. A good many of Mrs. Walcot 
Valbry’s guests had gone on to Eaton Place. Miravoglia 
was there, revelling in a peculiarly choice preparation of 
Neapolitan maccaroni, which was one of the features 
of these repasts. Miravoglia would dine or sup at no 
house where there was not maccaroni. A certain dis- 
tinguished actor-manager was there — that same Cosway 
Keele of whom Mrs. Yalbry had spoken. Cosway 
Keele’s approval was highly coveted by young actors 
and actresses. Another actor-manager of lesser dis- 
tinction was there also. So was the chief interviewer on 
the staff of an important weekly paper ; and so, too, 
was the editor of a popular society journal — a gentleman 
versed in traditions of the drama, who did not scruple 


48 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


to declare that he saw in the young American a coming 
Rachel. The secondary actor-manager plied Miravoglia 
with questions about the Improvisatrice in the intervals 
of maccaroni and draughts of Chianti. Cosway Keele 
smiled to himself in a brooding manner. It was quite 
evident that managerial curiosity had been baited. 

Among the guests less directly interested, conversation 
soon drifted off to other topics. Sir Donald Urquhart’s 
suppers were always lively and unconventional. They 
had an agreeably mingled flavour of the chicory of 
Bohemia and the mocha of fashion. All the women 
were pretty, entertaining, and becomingly dressed. 
Most of the men were well bred; all had in some way or 
other made their mark. The talk was a finely distilled 
essence of art, science, politics, and society. Sir 
Donald was rich; the appointments of his house were in 
perfect taste. Softly shaded electric drops lighted the 
rooms. The pictures and bric-a-brac were historic. The 
supper-table, with its hothouse fiowers, its Venetian glass 
and delicate equipments, was a harmony in colour which 
had been composed by a Royal Academician. Sir Donald 
had the reputation of being a confirmed bachelor, and 
though he announced his engagement to Countess 
Adrian, few of his friends took it seriously. She was 
seated at his right ; but her attention seemed chiefly 
directed to an elderly gentleman next her, with a grey 
beard, piercing brown eyes, and an altogether odd and 
powerful face— the same person who had brought back 


A MODERN MYSTIC. 


49 


Beatrice Brett to consciousness ; no other, indeed, 
than the celebrated Maddox Challis, Socialist, 
mystic, novelist, and philosopher, who, an ascetic in the 
East, was in London one of the wittiest and most agree- 
able of diners out. London, who knew him slightly in 
.that phase of his curious personality, was seated on his 
other side, and exchanged a few words with him as 
Countess Adrian bent forward to speak to some one across 
the table. 

“ You will be glad to hear,” he said, “ that Miss Brett 
had quite recovered when I left her. She was going 
home with her aunt.” 

“ Ah ! yes, I knew she would recover quickly. It 
was nothing serious, except in the sense of being an 
unhappy augury for her future. She is a very interesting 
young lady : I should like to see something more of her.” 

‘‘ 1 have no doubt that Professor Yiall would be 
delighted to give you the opportunity,” said London. 

“Unfortunately, it is impossible. I am on the eve of 
one of my pilgrimages to the East. If you know Miss 
Brett well enough, advise her to be careful. She will 
be a great actress, but it may be at the expense of what 
is more valuable even than fame.” 

“ You mean that she is too nervous and highly wrought 
for the wear and tear of such a career ? ” 

“ I mean that she is one of those strange and rarely 
endowed beings whose garment of flesh is but a thin and 
ineffectual shield against spiritual onslaughts, and who 


50 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


under certain conditions would be almost defenceless 
against malignant influences, or even against a magnetism 
of a different and more dominant nature than her own. 
In the old days such beings were called Sibyls ; they were 
isolated from contaminating currents, and were guarded 
by the priests, who made use of their peculiar gifts as 
something sacred. The fashion of Sibyls has gone out, 
as well as the knowledge that trained them. Nowadays 
they are called mediums, and are let loose upon society 
to be its destruction and their own.” 

Countess Adrian leaned back again, and, turning to 
Challis, interrupted the conversation. 

‘*1 beg your pardon, Mr. Challis, but I have heard 
nothing so interesting for a long time as the account of 
those hypnotic experiments in Paris. Please go on.” 

London strained his ears to listen, but at that moment 
the lady next him awoke to the fact of his existence, and 
began questioning him about his late tour, and the 
mystic’s low- toned utterances lost themselves in a 
confused murmur. Countess Adrian appeared to find 
them absorbing ; she sat forward with her elbow on the 
table, eating nothing, and with neither eyes nor ears 
for any other person. Presently the babble on London’s 
left set itself in another direction, and he made out that 
Mr. Challis and Countess Adrian were still discussing 
hypnotism, and the possibility of a strong vitality absorbing 
into itself a weaker nature than its own— a question in’ 
which Countess Adrian seemed intensely interested. 


A MODEKN MYSTIC. 


51 


“You mean to say, then,” Lendon heard her ask, 
“that I, for instance, who have any amount of animal 
spirits and energy, could, if I chose to use my will-power, 
take possession of some peculiarly sensitive organization 
and control it in whatever way I pleased ? ” 

“Not exactly,” answered Mr. Challis, “ though that too 
is quite possible. This is what I meant. Suppose a person 
of enormous vitality — yourself, for example — suddenly 
killed by accident, or it might be by heart-disease ? ” 

“No, no. Oh, don’t suppose the one fate of which I 
have a terror.” Countess Adrian bent eagerly forward, 
BO that Lendon, who was leaning on the table, his face 
in her direction, caught her eyes full. Both drew back, 
but the conversation continued. 

“Well,” said Mr. Challis, “let us not suppose that, 
since it is disagreeable to you.” 

“ But tell me the case you were going to put. I know 
that you have all sorts of queer ideas and experiences, if 
you could only be persuaded to make them public.” 

“ In this instance nothing could give me greater 
pleasure, since you express a desire to hear them. The 
case in my mind was that of a strong person dying 
suddenly during a paroxysm of violent emotion, the 
object of the emotion being a woman of just that 
sensitive organization you describe.” 

“Well, and what then?” 

“ Don’t you see that the intense emotion, the human 
clinging to life, would create a force which must be 


52 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


inextinguishable. That strong individuality could not be 
blown out in a breath. There was a moment’s physical 
contact with the weaker frame, and a magnetic connection 
was established. Nature works by material as well as by 
spiritual law. The stronger soul expelled the feebler, and 
lived out the drama in another body.” 

“ Ah! And the poor spirit that was driven forth ?” 

“ Who knows ? Perhaps it went to the limbo of 
unborn souls to wait for a new garment of flesh.” 

“ What a strange man you are I I understand you, 
though. See I you have made Mr. Lendon think us both 
crazy.” She pointedly leaned forward again, and her 
eyes purposely met those of Lendon a second time, as 
she addressed him. Earlier in the evening Sir Donald 
had presented him to her. 

“ Many people think me crazy,” composedly replied 
Mr. Ohallis. “ But surely no one would venture to suggest 
anything so commonplace of the Countess Adrian. I 
am going to say good night,” he added ; “ for 1 see that 
the smoking stage is reached, and to take one’s leave 
with the second cigarette is like rising during a sermon 
before the exordium closes— a bad compliment to be 
avoided. We shall not meet for some time. Countess. 
I start for Palestine immediately. 

He rose. His wiry grey beard touched her shoulder, 
as he said something in a low tone, at which she shook 
her head and smiled. Then he glided unobtrusively 
behind his host’s chair, made his farewell and vanished. 


A MODEEN MYSTIC. 


53 


“ A remarkable mao ! ” observed Lendon, taking the 
vacant place. 

Countess Adrian merely nodded. There was a general 
stir just then. Chairs were being pushed back, couples 
were pairing, and they were drawing up lounges round 
the blazing fire in an inner smoking-room, separated 
from that in which they had supped by a screen of 
Eastern carving. Sir Donald was pressing upon his 
lady guests some especially choice Russian cigarettes. 
He noticed that Countess Adrian and Lendon had moved 
from the table together, and smiled in the indifferent 
way that with him expressed approval. It was difiicult to 
realise that he was in love with the lady, but indifferentism 
is the hall-mark of a certain type of London man. 

You’ll find it more comfortable in there,” he said. 
“ Let me recommend the liqueur.” 

Countess Adrian placed herself upon a divan, partially 
screened by draperies of Turkish brocade, and looked 
at Lendon above her yellow fan. He seated himself also. 

I have your permission ?” he asked, fixing his cigarette 
in its holder. 

“ Of course. My own sky-parlour is often redolent of 
smoke, e?en at this hour. I live at the very top of Queen 
Anne’s Mansions. Mr. Lendon, you’ll come and see me, 
won’t you ? I’ve a particular reason for w^anting to know 
more of you.” 

He expressed his gratification and at the same time 
his curiosity as to the reason she spoke of. 


54 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


“ I will tell you,” she answered. “ I know that you 
once did a very noble action to a woman who repaid you 
with base in gratitude. I have seen your portrait. I 
have read some of your letters. You will understand 
what I mean when I tell you that circumstances once 
brought me into contact with Jessie Harford.” 

London winced. The episode in his life to which she 
alluded was one full of paiu. When much younger, he 
had fallen romantically in love with his model — a young 
married woman deserted by her husband, and living a 
life of temptation that must have inevitably led to ruin. 
London saved this woman, for a time at any rate, from 
her tempters, from herself, and, it must be added, from 
his own worst self also. He could not marry her, and 
he idealized her too much to offer her anything less than 
marriage. For five years he was her loyal friend. He 
asked from her no reward. He never spoke to her of his 
love, but honestly did his best to live it down. He 
found her a companion of her own sex, and placed her in 
a position to earn a safe and honourable livelihood. 
After five years she betrayed his trust in the basest and 
most ungrateful manner. Even still he saw in her the 
traces of a better nature ; he sought her out, forgave her, 
and started her afresh. Again she deceived him, and 
this time sank beyond hope of redeinption. It was, he 
afterwards learned, during the brief period of her 
reclamation that Countess Adrian became acquainted 
with her. 


A MODEEN MYSTIC. 


55 


“ And you thought, ” she said, with a dash of cynicism 
in her tone, “ that women are to be won by generosity ! 
You are mistaken, my friend. There are few women with 
whom a bad man has not a better chance than a good 
one ; at all events, with whom tyranny hasn’t a better 
chance than tender devotion.” 

“ I cannot believe that. Countess,” Lendon said sadly ; 
‘^and anyhow a man can’t turn himself into a tyrant, if 
nature has not turned him out one, to win the respect 
of a woman — of such a woman.” 

“ N’ever mind,” she said ; “ 1 respect and admire you 
all the same. I don’t believe I should ever care much 
about a tyrant. I should rather do all the tyranny myself 
—if I could.” 

She looked sweetly at him, gave a little sigh, and then 
turned the conveivation on to some other subject, merely 
reminding him that he had promised to come to see 
her in Queen Anne’s Mansions. 

Kext day Lendon went to call on Miss Brett. Of 
course, he went in the evening. As she had told him, 
Beatrice lived with her guardian and his sister, not 
merely in charming rooms, as she had said in her letter 
to him, but in a charming house in the Regent’s Park, . 
which Professor Yiall had first fallen in love with and 
then hired. It was a small ivy-covered house, or rather 
cottage, standing in the midst of a little garden and 
grounds of its own, just out of one of the avenues of the 
Park. One might pass and repass a score of times and 


56 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS AUEIAN. 


never observe that there was an isolated habitation 
behind that iron railing. Salisbury Plain could not 
give more solitude or more meditation than the .dwellers 
in that little house could have when once they had got 
within its enclosure ; and yet they could hear the roar 
of the lions in the Zoological Gardens very distinctly 
every now and then. 

Lendon was in luck ; Professor Yiall and Mrs. Oubison 
both happened to be out at the moment of his calling, 
and he asked for Miss Brett, and was told she was at 
home. He was shown into a little sitting-room, evi- 
dently decorated and arranged by her own hand ; to 
his quick artistic eye there were manifest touches of 
her individuality and her poetic taste everywhere — and 
she received him with the free and cordial welcome of 
an American girl. Perhaps if Lendon had been a con- 
noisseur in girls and love-making, he might have wished 
for just a little air of embarrassment in her manner of 
receiving him — a faint blush, a fall of the eyelid, a 
tremble of the hand. 

They plunged into talk, real talk, at once. 

“ You have a great gift,” he said. “ Do you know 
quite what your gift is ? ” 

“ Tell me what you think it is. I don’t know much 
about it, or how it comes to me, or what it is, or how it 
is different from the gift of somebody else.” 

“You have full possession of that rarest of all dramatic 
arts, the art of impersonation. See what most of the 


A MODEEN MYSTIC. 


57 


men and women on the modem stage are. They are 
always just themselves — in different parts, in new 
dresses. Of course, we have some real actors, men and 
women who can impersonate. You are destined to a 
place with the very highest, for you can create a part 
utterly unlike your own individuality; and if you can 
create one, you can create twenty.” 

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “My mind 
seems to work in two ways. An idea springs up at 
once, seems a’ most to spring at me from the outside, 
leaps at me like a tiger, and then I put it into acting ; 
just as I did last night — until that terrible Countess 
Adrian spoiled my work. But at other times I get an 
idea suggested to me and I brood and brood over it — 
some part, some character, you know — and it seems 
gradually to grow into me, and I to grow into it, and at 
last it has full possession of me— and then I know I 
am right ; at least, I know that that is how I must 
play the part. Some other woman might have her own 
reading, and that might be better for her ; bub my idea 
has grown to be — myself.” 

“ What do you think of doing in London ? An 
improvisation or a play, or both ? ” 

“ Both, I think,” she answered, somewhat hesitatingly. 
“ I want to do the improvisation because it is something 
new and peculiar in this country ; but I don’t call it art 
in any high sense. Do you ? It is something hysteric 
almost. I want to study a really great part in a great 

E 


58 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


play, and see if I can do it. But, oh, if I should fail ! 
— here in this cold crowded London ; if anything — any 
influence should chill me ! 

A sudden impression was borne in upon him. “ You 
are thinking of the Countess Adrian ? ” he said. 

“ Yes,” she replied. 

In the simplest and most child-like way she put her 
hand upon his arm as if appealing to him for protection 
against some threatened danger. His pulses stirred at 
the touch ; and then again the touch disheartened him 
— it was too purely friendly and appealing, and her eyes 
looked into his with all the frankness of an unspoiled 
and unconscious school-girl — if there is such a 
creature. 

“You must conquer that odd fantasy,” he answered, 
after a moment’s pause, “ and you’ll not fail ; at least, it 
will not be your fault — the fault of your intellect and 
your genius and your soul — if you do fail. But I should 
be a little afraid about your nerves and your strength. 
Too much of such a performance as last night’s would 
soon wear you out. I fear it would take too much out 
of you. You are but a fragile girl. Miss Brett ; you 
need looking after.” 

“Yes, I feel very weak sometimes,” she said with a 
sigh — “both mentally and physically. I feel as if I 
should like to lean on some one. Oh, they are so kind, 
the Professor and Mrs. Cubison ; but they are so strong 
and self-contained that they can’t either of them give 


A MODEEN MYSTIC. 


59 


me just what I need. Am I talking nonsense and 
egotism ? ” 

‘‘You are not talking nonsense, and I specially wish 
to hear you talk ah mt yourself. Yes ; you do need to 
be looked after, you want some pillar to lean against. 
But,” and here Lendon made a strong effort to master 
his emotions, to be not himself — an effort almost as 
strong as one of her own feats of impersonation, “ you 
will find some one to love, and who will love you and 
understand you, and he will be the pillar to lean against.” 

She looked up to him without a gleam of surprise or 
a shadow of displeasure on her face ; and she answered 
very quietly — 

“ Oh, no, Mr. Lendon ; I don’t think so at all. I 
am too fond of this calling of mine ; I haven’t room 
for any slighter affection. I couldn’t love a man in that 
way, I am sure; and he would be jealous of my Art, I 
am certain. No, there would hardly be space enough 
in my life for him and for my Art.” 

She spoke with as unaffected a directness and simpli- 
city as if they had only been talking of the fine 
weather. 

“ But you can’t always lead this lonely kind of life,” 
he said. 

“ I am never lonely — in that sense. Perhaps I could 
do better sometimes if I were more alone.” 

Lendon felt disappointed. It was clear that she cared 
nothing about him ; never thought of him in any lover- 


60 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


like sense — as yet. All the while he felt more and more 
in love with her, felt himself becoming almost painfully 
absorbed in her. 

“ Well,” he said resolutely, dropping that subject, I 
want to see you create some part in a great play — some- 
thing that is not familiar to our London audiences. 
That would be better than the Improvisation. The 
Improvisation takes too much out of you, I am sure. 
And then I feel, with you, that it is hardly Art. Am 
I too outspoken in my opinions ? ” 

“ Oh no ! I delight to hear you tell me what I ought 
to do. I am sm-e you understand me better than — most 
people.” 

Was she going to say, Better than any one;” and 
did she check herself on the words ? Yes, he thought 
80, and he felt a thrill of delight. 

“ I think I understand you better than most people,” 
he said ; and I think you have not yet got the secret 
of your own power — the talisman to summon it.” 

“ Oh no, I am sure I have not. I cannot tell why I 
am so strong and passionate and all aflame when I am 
possessed of some part, and why in my common life I 
am so weak and easily tired, and why I long to lean on 
some support. An odd notion comes into my mind 
sometimes. I feel as if I had not quite a soul of my 
own ; and that when I get inspired with some part it is 
the soul of some one else which has come in to the help 
of mine, or has driven mine out for the moment. You 


A MODERN MYSTIC. 


61 


may laugh at me if you like, Mr. Lendon, I shan’t be 
one hit angry ; but I do feel like that sometimes.” 

“ You make me think,” Lendon said, “ of the Italian 
legend about Paganini. Have you ever heard of it ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think I have.” 

I forget the details of the story ; but the central 
idea was that Paganini had contrived, by some unearthly 
arts, to conjure the soul of bis dying sweetheart into 
his violin, and that the marvellous music which the 
instrument gave out ever after was the wail of the soul 
eternally imprisoned within it.” 

“ How strange ! ” she said, with a little shudder. “ It 
is an uncanny story, and yet it fascinates me.” 

‘‘ I want to ask you a favour,” he broke off abruptly. 
‘‘I want you to let me paint you as you appear in 
your great character.” 

“ Oh yes,” she replied ; and for the first time during 
their talk a light flush came over her face. “But it 
shall be on condition, Mr. Lendon— yes, I must exact a 
condition.” 

“ And the condition is ? ” 

“ That you find the great part for me.” 

“ That is the very thing I wanted to do ; I was going 
to ask you to let me look out a part for you.” 

Oh, I shall be so delighted I I never could find 
one for myself ; and I don’t think there is any one who 
could find me a part that I should trust myself to— but 
only you.” 


62 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


“ Then you will try the part I find for you ? ” 

'‘I will play any part you find for me. I know that 
I shall make it my own ; I know that it will grow into 
me, and that I shall grow into it. Yes, I shall feel 
absolute trust in your choice, Mr. Lendon. Why, this 
is exactly what I was saying, a short time ago, that I 
wanted above all other things.” 

“ What is that ? ” he asked in an embarrassed 
tone. 

“Why, don’t you remember? — an influence to take 
care of me — a pillar to lean against. And now I have 
my wish granted all at once. You shall be the influence 
to take care of me and guide me ; I shall lean against 
the pillar of your support.” 

The words were sweet, ineffably sweet, to his ears; 
although, most assuredly, they were not words of a girl’s 
love : they told of trust, and even, perhaps, of affection ; 
but Beatrice Brett was evidently not thinking of love. 
“Never mind,” he said to himself, and his heart beat a 
triumphant measure, “that will come in time ; I know 
it will.” 

“Is it not strange,” she said softly, “how well I 
seem to know you already, and how sure I feel that 
you will put me in the right way in my Art and in 
everything ? ” 

“So then,” he said joyously, “this is a compact 
between us. Miss Brett ? ” 

“Yes ; I am so glad !— a compact of friendship.” 


A MODEEN MYSTIC. 


68 


“ Of frieDdship now,” he said to his own heart ; of 
something better later on.” 

‘‘ But I think I should like you to call me Beatrice,” 
she said ; ‘‘ it would sound more friendly ; it would 
seem as if I were your pupil, and yon had charge 
of me.” 

“ Very well,” Lendon replied ; “ Beatrice.” 

Just then Professor Yiall and Mrs. Cubison came in, 
and the illumination seemed to go out of the scene for 
Lendon. 


64 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


CHAPTER lY. 

The Actress at Home. 

The transcf^ndent love-illumination went out; but home- 
lier lights shed themselves upon the Viall household, 
and made a little more clear to Leiidon various things 
which had puzzled him. With an unconventional 
friendlin ss, which seemed to him very un-English, they 
insisted upon his staying for their evening meal — a sort 
of high tea of smoking cakes and scolloped oysters, and 
innocent beverages which reminded him of repasts in 
certain* Puritan households in the smaller Massachusetts 
towns. Both the Professor and Mrs. Cubison drank 
many cups of tea ; and when the meal was over, as if to 
make up for their abstinence from alcoholic stimulant, 
they both smoked many cigarettes. It was over the 
cigarettes that their hearts expanded, and that they 
took London freely into their confidence as to their 
plans, hopes, prospects, and family history. Beatrice 
did not smoke cigarettes, nor was she equally communi- 
cative. She went away for a little while, on the plea of 
preparing her morning’s lesson for Miravoglia, and when 
she came back sat thoughtfully apart with a book which 
she did not read. The result of the Professor’s and 


THE ACTRESS AT HOME. 


65 


Mrs. Cubison’s confidences was that Lendon mentally 
decided they were “ a queer lot.” Perhaps a wholly un- 
prejudiced observer might not have hesitated to include 
Miss Beatrice Brett herself in the sweeping summing up. 
Lendon, however, confined his criticism to the Professor, 
Mrs. Oubison, and the race of Transatlantic occultists 
in general, of whose peculiarities he quickly gleaned, 
something in the conversation of his new friends. For 
one thing he learned that “Occultist,” as opposed to 
“Spiritualist,” was the proper term to apply to en- 
lightened beings possessed of ideas of a supramundane 
order, and relating, broadly, to will-force, magnetic 
healing, inspirational gifts, and communion with beings 
from what Professor Yiall and Mrs. Oubison called “ the 
other side.” The Professor was careful to impress upon 
his auditors that the commonplace wonders of profes- 
sional mediums were not to be named in a breath with 
that higher spiritual science which had evolved the Viall- 
Motor, and that the vulgar sprites of the planchette and 
the tilted table were utterly beneath the contempt of one 
who had been admitted among the cultured aristocracy 
of the world of shades. 

All this might have seemed less strange and absurd 
to Lendon, had he known anything of the mystical 
'backwaters of London society ; but when “Mr. Isaacs” 
and “The Occult World” had heralded in the new 
religion of Theosophy, he had been absorbed in the 
tragedy of Jessie Harford ; and before the advent of 


66 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


Madame Blavatsky lie had taken ship to South America, 
and was shooting condors and making sketches on the 
lower slopes of the Andes. Thus he was somewhat 
behind -his time as regards this latest development of 
modern thought. 

He had read “ The Undiscovered Country,” however, 
and soon became of opinion that it would require the 
genius of Mr. Howells to do justice to the complexities 
of Professor Yiall’s personality. Perhaps it was a certain 
superficial similarity between Miss Brett and the inno- 
cent clairvoyant of that novel that made him at first 
bok upon the Professor as a crack-brained charlatan 
exploiting a beautiful young victim, whose mental cha- 
racteristics lent themselves readily to his fraudulent 
purposes. But before many days were past he had 
changed his views ; for he d.iscovered that, not only 
was the Professor’s main and absorbing object the ex- 
ploitation of his Yiall-Motor, but that he was a rich 
man — rich enough, at any rate, to be an enthusiast 
without suspicion of base intentions. He discovered, 
too, that Miss Brett herself had an independent furtune, 
and that she, on her part, was absorbed by one dream 
and determination — that of succeeding in the dramatic 
profession, for which she had been carefully trained, 
and that she was merely taking advantage of her uncle 
and aunt’s chaperona^e for the furthering of her own 
particular scheme of life. No, it they were queer, they 
were certainly genuine; and if they were adventurers, 


THE ACTKESS AT HOME. 


67 


it was not with any notion of gulling the British 
public. 

As in this evening’s talk he learned more of tht 
Professor’s immediate plans and interests, Leridon began 
to resent in an odd way the very indifference he seemed 
to show for Miss Brett’s lonely position, and the easy 
manner in which he appeared to take it for granted 
that Fate would steer her safely through the troubled 
waters of a theatrical career. He could not help sajing, 
when the Professor spoke of his return to the States as 
imminent — 

“ But surely you will not leave Miss Brett here 
alone?” 

‘‘ Why not ? ” said the Professor calmly. “ She has 
been alone all her life. She studied by herself in New 
York and Paris, and I presume London is no worse a 
place for a young woman than they are. Oh, Beaty is 
very well able to get along, though she looks so 
fragile.” 

“ Suppose she should be ill ? ” said London ; “ if she 
should have another fainting fit, like that of the other 
night, for instance ? ” 

“That’s true,” said the Profes-or. “ I guess she must 
keep as clear as she can uf mixed magnetism ; and if 
she does get upset, why t h ue’s Mrs. Cubison to look 
after her. She says it was that Countess Adrian that 
affected her. I’ve given her a good talking to. I’ve 
shown her how she ought to train herbelf to resist cross- 


68 


THE SOUL or COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


magnetism: not that I ever knew Beaty affected like 
that before,” he added thoughtfully. 

London glanced at Beatrice, who, while the others 
were talking, sat in front of the fire — for the evenings 
were very cold — her eyes fixed on the flames. By intui- 
tion, it seemed, they turned, as his sought hers, and she 
smiled a smile of frank, childlike confidence. His heart 
thrilled at the thought of this unspoken understanding. 
She counted on him to guard her against real and 
fancied evil — against the actual dangers of London, 
against the imaginary danger of Countess Adrian. This 
was what her look said ; and then she turned back again 
to the contemplation of the fire. 

“ Yes, there’s Mrs. Cubison,” repeated the Professor ; 
‘‘she’ll nurse her if she is ill, and do the housekeeping, 
and keep off the sharks. Marmy is not good for much 
social business, but she is good for that.” 

Mrs. Cubison gave a fat laugh. “I’ll do my best,” 
she said, nodding at Beatrice, who took no notice ; “ but 
Beaty is kinder wilful, and hard to drive.” 

“Yet, if Miss Brett intends serioudy to go on the 
stage, there should be some one, should there not, to 
take care of her professional interests ? ” said Lendon. 

“Pull the wires, you mean, butter up the critics, 
tackle the managers, and supply the ncw^japers with 
paragraphs. But we are independent of wire-pulling, 
Mr. Lendon. Beaty is a born genius, and genius don’t 
need bolstering up. She ain’t going to bind herself 


THE ACTRESS AT HOME. 


69 


down body and soul to any manager. She has gone 
through the drudgery, and now she means to produce 
herself. The London mauagers will be glad enough to 
take her on her own terms when they see what she can 
do. Her business man will do the dirty work for her ; 
and as for other things, why I dare say you’ll look in 
sometimes, Mr. Lendon, and give her and Marmy a bit 
of advice.” 

Lendon profited by the invitation, and during the next 
week or two made his way very often to the little house 
in Regent’s Park. His visits were usually timed in the 
evening or late afternoon, and on most occasions he 
found Beatrice alone. Mrs. Cubison was a lady who 
evidently enjoyed and made the most of such society as 
was within her reach. She had a weakness for matinees 
at the theatres, and frequented drawing-room recitals and 
entertainments, for the most part got up by enterprising 
Americans who wanted to air their special views or to 
exhibit their special accomplishments. She had also an 
immense amount of shopping to do for herself and 
her friends, and accounted for her apparent extravagance 
on the plea that everything was so dear ‘‘ on the other 
side.” It must be owned that Lendon got sometimes 
a little bewildered among Mrs. Oubison’s figures of 
speech, and was not always certain whether she meant 
the other side of the Atlantic or across the borders 
of Infinity. Mrs. Cubison occupied herself a good deal^ 
as well, in visiting her English or American-English 


70 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


acquaintances. She had quite a large circle of friends, 
none of whom did Miss Beatrice appear to know, and 
who seemed for the greater number to live in the remoter 
parts of West Kensington and Notting Hill, or in 
Camden Town, or other distant regions. Thus it happened 
that, when she came home late and found London talking 
to Beatrice, she seemed glad of the excuse to absent 
herself, declaring that Beaty couldn’t be dull while he 
was there, and that she really must rest her poor head 
and legs, which were quite worn out. As for the Professor, 
he lived principally in his study when he was at home, 
and that was seldom : he seemed to be always flying 
over the country, to attend some mysterious meeting, or 
. to consult some scientist, unknown to fame, on matters 
relating to the Yiall- Motor. Lendon had a very imperfect 
comprehension of the properties of the Yiall-Motor, 
shirking explanations with the Professor as one shirks 
discussing with its subject the details of harmless mono- 
mania, and amiably accepting it on the authority of 
Mrs. Walcot Yalbry as something in the way of psychical 
electricity — so she called it — altogether wonderful and 
altogether indeflnite, which, when it was completed, would 
supersede every other motive force in the world, but 
about which it would be time enough to think seriously 
when it was completed. His dominant feeling in regard 
to it at present was one of gratitude for the oppor- 
tunities of unrestrieted companionship with Beatrice 
which it afforded him. 


THE ACTKESS AT HOME. 


71 


Since the establishment of the compact between them, 
she seemed to take it for granted that he was to go and 
see her when he pleased ; and many times he did so 
please. She always received him in her own little sitting- 
room, where her piano lay open, with its odd-looking score 
of vocal exercises on the desk, and which was strewn with 
her own particular books — her Shakespeare (of course, 
she held the Baconian theory, and studied the plays by 
the light of Mr. Donnelly’s Cryptogram, and many a 
long argument had she on the subject with Lendon, 
who fought stoutly for the Bard of Avon), her dramatic 
critics, her Lessing, her Diderot, her Coleridge, her Charles 
Lamb, her Hazlitt, her George Henry Lewes. Some- 
times they sat in the tiny walled garden, and sometimes 
they strolled into the Eegent’s Park, or even, when she 
was in a particularly frivolous mood, found their way be 
the Zoo. 

He was careful not to speak to her of love ; he saw that 
the time was not yet ripe ; and then, too, her attitude 
towards him seemed as if intended to convey the impres- 
sion that they met on a kind of neutral and shadowy 
ground, and that she did not belong to his world, nor he 
to hers. So far, indeed, he had not even been able to 
persuade her to visit his studio ; she always made an 
excuse for putting off a serious proposition that he 
ventured to put forward ; nor would she let him do 
guide-book for her, and show her the sights of London. 
She seemed to have an odd shrinking from glare and 


72 


THE SOTJL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


society. She lived in her books and her work, and, though 
shut out from her in one sense, it was sweet to him to 
feel that she allowed him to identify himself with these 
interests, and that in the quiet region of Art their 
spirits might come together. It pleased her sometimes 
to play the pupil, and to appeal to him to direct her 
reading ; and, in truth, he found that, well educated, 
even cultured as she was, she had roved in very desultory 
and discursive fashion through the field of dramatic 
literature. He discovered that she was but poorly 
acquainted with the Elizabethan dramatists, and it was 
he who introduced her to Massinger’s sweet and tender 
Camiola, the Maid of Honour ; to Dekker’s wild, impulsive 
and altogether womanly Eoaring Girl; to Webster’s 
beautiful and tragic Duchess of Malfi — a play of which 
he was particularly fond, and of the revival of which 
before a London audience he cherished wild dreams : he 
had talked about it more than once to Oosway Keele, and 
had even attempted a somewhat modernised version of 
the great work, but so far nothing had come of it ; and 
Cosway Keele had always shaken his head, and declared 
that there was not a living actress who could play the part 
of the Duchess. Lendon gave the play now to Beatrice 
to study, and was delighted to find that she shared his 
admiration, and took the same noble and sympathetic 
view of the character as he himself, for to him the 
Duchess of Malfi was one of the ideal women. So the 
weeks wore on in the little house in Regent’s Park. 


THE ACTRESS AT HOME. 


78 


Never did actress lead simpler or more innocent life 
She worked all the morning, practising elocution with 
Miravoglia, or gesture with an eminent lady-professor 
from the Paris Conservatoire, and then when she came 
home she studied her parts, and when Lendon was 
announced he often found her stretched in sheer fatigue 
on the sofa beneath the bulging casement-window and 
ready to yield herself, as a child might do, to a little 
deferential petting and sympathy. 


74 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


CHAPTER V. 

Tea in the Studio. 

Tendon’s studio was situated in the artistic colony oi 
Chelsea. He had built himself a low red-brick house 
after all the approved canons. His fortune was suffi- 
ciently large to enable him to gratify a mild passion for 
Iric-a-hrac. He had some very good china and a 
quantity of fine tapestry, and his collection of old prints 
.was famous. The studio itself was a homelike place ; 
he was fond of it, and, in the Jessie Harford days, work 
had been his passion. He had idealized her in every 
possible mocd and attitude, and studies of her still 
hung in dim corners and stood on unused easels like 
mocking ghosts of the nast. He put these' away with 
something of an ironic pang on the day before that fixed 
for Beatrice Brett’s first visit — such a pang as a sincere- 
minded person might feel in taking down the symbol 
of an outworn faith to make place for the sign visible 
of conversion to a new and more convincing creed. He 
took a good deal of pains in beautifying his studio for 
the reception of his American guests — Beatrice and Mrs. 
Cubison only ; the Professor had been called away on 
other business. Never before had he fidgeted so over 


TEA IN THE STUDIO. 


75 


the placing of his chairs, or examined bis various pro- 
perties with so critical an eye as to the effect they might 
produce on an outside observer, or altered and disposed 
anew so many times the fold of a piece of drapery or the 
arrangement of his curious collection of pots and pans ; 
not even on the occasion of a visit from a royal personage, 
or on that of the annual reception, a few days before 
Show Sunday, at which he was wont to entertain his 
ei^pecial circle of friends apart from the ordinary herd 
who trotted round the artists’ quarter. The studio had 
a gallery at one end, hung with his rough sketches, and 
draped with odd bits of Oriental work. He wondered 
whether Beatrice would admire his hangings of Moorish 
tapestry and Berdan embroidery, his Turkish tiles let 
into the fire place, and his odd pieces of Oriental brass- 
work ; and he wondered whether she would be interested 
in hearing him tell of how he had come by his different 
treasures — for to nearly all some reminiscence of adven- 
ture or more or less romantic association was attached — 
and if her eyes would lighten, and her charming smile 
come into play ; and if she would poke about with that 
air of child-like interest which already he had begun to 
know and look for ; and if she would notice his collection 
of pipes, and remark his little jewelled liqueur-cups ; and 
if perhaps— audacious thought!— she would accept one 
of the pretty things in token that she had forgiven that 
unlucky speech in relation to the objectionable word 
morbid,” which she was always in a half serious, half 


76 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


laughing way, bringing up against him. And had she 
ever tasted Eussian tea he wondered, and would she like 
it ; and would she try his piano ? He knew she was 
musical, for he had once called and been shown into her 
sitting-room in the course of a lesson from Miravoglia, 
and he had known by the way in which the fat little 
Italian put his finger to his lip with a deep-drawn S-sh. 
and had struck the chords of the accompaniment with a 
sign that she was to go on unmindful of the interruption, 
that the master was proud of his pupil and wished to 
show her off to the intruder. She had only been singing 
a sort of recitative exercise, but Miravoglia had patted 
her shoulder when she had finished with an air of bene- 
volent commendation. 

“ Zat is good, but it is not as good as you can do. 
You are weak. You do not eat.” He turned round on 
his stool and gazed at her. “ My gracious ! how pale 
you are ! What is ze matter ?” 

“I didn’t sleep very well last night. Signor,” said 
Beatrice, who had in the meantime nodded welcome to 
Lendon. “ I have just finished,” she added, motioning 
him to a seat. 

“You not sleep last night,” repeated Miravoglia. 
“ What ’as ’e been doing ? I kill ’im if ’e worry you.” 

“ There’s no ‘ he ’ in the question. Signor.” 

“ Then why you worry ? ” and he made a gesture of 
sovereign contempt, as if to imply that nothing short of 
a lover could by any possibility be a legitimate cause for 


TEA IN THE STUDIO. 


77 


uneasiness to a young woman. ** You must eat much. 
To-morrow you take a good breakfast — not your leetle 
toast and tea of the fine ladies who lean back in their 
carriages in the Park — but a ver’ good meal. You are a 
worker. Workers must eat.” 

‘‘ I know that, Signor,” said Beatrice meekly. “ Tell 
me, do you take such good care of all your pupils ? ” 

‘‘ Not of all, not of all,” and he looked at Lendon as 
he tapped himself knowingly on the chest ; “ but I have 
somesing ’ere to take care of — somesing zat will do great 
sings.” 

‘‘ The reason why Signor Miravoglia is so popular with 
his pupils is that he pays them all such nice sugary 
compliments,” said Beatrice, teasingly, turning to Lendon. 

“ Compliments ! ” cried the Signor ; “ you shall ’ear. 
Zere was a young lady who came to me zis morning; 
she want to go on de stage. ‘ Mademoiselle,’ I say to 
’er, ‘ you have come to know if you can sing ; you say 
you ’ave a lofely voice. Perhaps I may not sink you 
’ave a lofely voice. No matter, I will tell you de truth.’ 
So she sing — ^you shall ’ear if I compliment. ^Made- 
moiselle,’ I say to ’er, ‘it is awful ! Nevare sing again, 
nevare sing one note.’ And now, Mees Beatrice, we will 
have a leetle song. Begin.” 

She protested that her lesson was over. Miravoglia 
insisted. Lendon entreated. So she sang a German 
song after a fashion that called forth a “ Brava ! ” from 
Miravoglia, and that touched Lendon to the very depths 


78 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


of his heart. It was wonderful that so strong and rich a 
voice should come from that fragile frame. It was very 
sweet, too, and had a pathos which he thought he had 
never heard equalled. 

When she had finished, Miravoglia swung himself 
round on the music-stool and cut short London’s thanks. 
“ She will do,” he cried ; but she is nervous. No 
matter ! — zere never was an artist who was not nervous. 
I believe in ’er. .Remember, Mees Beatrice, what I tell 
you. Sing from your big ’eart. Sing as if you was in 
lofe. Zere is no ’e ! ” he went on indignantly. ‘‘Zere 
must be one ’e, I tell you. You are in lofe?” he 
questioned insinuatingly. 

A beautiful blush came over Beatrice’s face. She 
laughed with a touch of embarrassment. “ No, indeed, 
Signor,” she answered. “ I haven’t any time for that.” 

“ No time ? Ah ! Bah ! It is good for an artist to 
be in lofe. Make yourself in lofe, Mees Beatrice.” 

“But, Signor Miravoglia, I have tried and quite 
unsuccessfully. I have done my very best to fall in love 
with each of the heroes at each one of the plays which I 
have gone to see in London, and all in vain. There is 
not one among them who gives me an emotion — except, 
'erhaps, Cosway Keele.” 

“ Ah ! Cosway Keele ! ” echoed Miravoglia, con- 
emptuously. “ He is not bad, but ’e is too old, and 

besides No, Cosway Keele will not do. Never mind,” 

he added, refiectively ; and as he spoke his eyes were on 


TEA m THE STUDIO. 


79 


Lendon, and it seemed as if he were appraising Lendon’s 
qualifications for a possible lover. “ Wait ; ’e will come. 
Zere never was an artist who did not lofe ; and zen,” he 
added, consolingly, “ she will sing from the bottom of ’er 
very big ’eart.” And with this prophecy Miravoglia 
bundled up his music and departed. 

Lendon remembered the little scene, and Beatrice’s 
flush, and her shy laugh when Miravoglia had gone and 
they were alone, and how she had abruptly turned the 
conversation and had there and then selected her visit to 
the studio this very day. He went off into a blissful 
dream, which was interrupted by the entrance of . his 
servant with some flowers he had ordered. And then 
there were minute directions to be given as to the 
preparation of the tea and the purchase of an especial 
cake which was only to be procured in one particular 
shop in High Street, Kensington, and which he was 
certain Beatrice would like ; and there was a box of 
Paris bonbons to be unpacked — did not all American 
girls adore bonbons ! — and there were the flowers to be 
arranged — such glorious masses of Nice violets, and 
branches of mimosa, and bunches of red and purple 
and pink anemones, so that the dusky studio was fragrant 
and beautiful with blossom as the gardens and olive 
gj’oves of the sunny South. • 

And how Lendon was rewarded for all his pains by 
Beatrice’s exclamations of delight, and by the brighten- 
ing of her serious face, and the ghlish pleasure with 


80 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


which she bent over the bowls of mimosa nnd violets and 
anemones, which last were new to her, and by her frank 
admiration of all his pretty things, and by her sweet and 
gracious acceptance of the tiny Moorish cup he shyly 
offered her ! The sun shone out, though it had been 
dark and foggy enough before, and made her golden hair 
glisten in its rays, and it seemed to him that she had 
brought the sunbeams with her. Oh ! it was a very 
pleasant afternoon. The cake and the lonbons were a 
success, and so was the Russian tea, not the least so 
because it absorbed Mrs. Cubison’s attention for the time, 
and set her speculating as to how she could procure a 
samovar to send as a present to a New York lady of 
culture and taste who appreciated things out of the 
common. The samovar turned her off (n a voyage of 
discovery among the relics, as she called t :era, and 
she begged that she might be allowed to prowl about 
among the cabinets and in the daik corners, in the hope 
that she might improve her taste and culti7ate her eye to 
the capacity of discriminating between the genuine articles 
and the Birmingham imitations on exhibition in Regent 
Street and Oxford Circus. So Beatrice and Lendon 
were left more or less to themselves at the piano ; and a 
charming sympathetic talk they had, while she played 
dreamy dittle things by Hiller and Brahm, or he played 
and she listened, conversation rippling on to the measure 
of the music in an odd, fitful, fanciful fashion. 

The sun went down ; the lamps were brought in, and 


TEA IN THE STUDIO. 


81 


the fire danced up and deepened the tender glow on 
Beatrice’s cheeks. Mrs. Cubison reminded her that they 
were going to the theatre that evening — Cosway Keele 
had sent them a box for the now waning attraction at 
the Dionysion, and though they had seen it once already 
they were happy to go again — and then, to Lendon’s 
surprise and pleasure, Beatrice herself turned rather 
timidly to him and asked him if in the Professor’s 
absence he would care to be their escort. Would he 
not ? His f6te day was not over yet, for there and then 
he devised a little plan by which Beatrice should see 
something more of London life, and he should have still 
a further taste of her society. What was to prevent 
them from dining with him at the Orpheus Club ? And 
might he call at their house, say an hour hence, and 
take them thither ? and that would give him just time to 
dress and to go round by the Orpheus and order a table 
and see that the champagne was put on ice. For Mrs. 
Cubison must throw aside her Puritan ways for that 
one evening ; and indeed he was sure that she was not a 
Puritan at all, but a veritable Bohemian ; and since, of 
course, she would not forego her after-dinner cigarette 
she would find the Orpheus supply quite reliable. They 
had a cosy meal, though Mrs. Cubison did not indulge 
in her usual cigarette, which she declared she only 
smoked to keep the Professor company, and though 
the consumption of champagne, as far as the ladies 
were concerned, was not large j and it was Cosway 


82 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


Keele’s own box which he had sent them, so that nothing 
could have been more agreeable or comfortable. There 
occurred, however, one curious drawback to the evening’s 
enjoyment, and this was the discovery by Beatrice herself 
that Countess Adrian was in the house. 

Lendon wondered why suddenly she drew back and 
gave a little shiver, and why she turned so pale. 

“Are you cold ?” he asked; “ I am afraid there is a 
draught in that corner.” 

“No,” she answered, “it is not that. Look down at 
the end of the third row, just below us.” 

He did so, and saw Sir Donald Urquhart’s slightly 
bald head and bored impassive face raised upwards, and 
beside him Countess Adrian’s sleek coils of hair and 
statuesque neck and shoulders. 

“ Don’t you see that you are giving way to a fancy ? ” 
he said. “ You were quite happy till they came in.” 

“ Ah ! ” she answered ; “ that is just the thing. I 
seemed all of a sudden to know that she was near me, 
and then X saw them take their places there.” 

“ Beatrice,” he said, leaning towards her and speaking 
very low. “Do you remember our compact and your 
own words to me — ^your promise that I should be an 
influence to take care of you, a pillar against which you 
might lean for support ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ I remember.” 

“Then try to think that, unworthy as I am, my 
dearest longing in the whole world is to be your support, 


TEA m THE STUDIO. 


83 


your shield against this uncanny fancy which has taken 
possession of you. Pat your hand in mine for a moment 
and gain strength and courage to fight against it, from 
the knowledge of my” — he paused for an instant and 
his voice trembled — ‘‘of my sympathy and affection.” 

She did put her hand in his — her little trembling 
hand whose touch thrilled him with a peculiar magnetism 
of its own. At that moment Countess Adrian looked up. 
Her dark eyes rested on the box for several seconds and 
she seemed to be taking in all its occupants ; then she 
bowed to London, and turning, whispered something in 
Sir Donald’s ear. 

“Are you stronger, Beatrice?” London whispered. 
“ Do you not feel that it is a fancy to be combated and 
conquered ? ” 

“ It is no fancy,” she replied, “ but I am stronger 
when you are with me. You don’t know how I feel 
when she looks at me,” the girl went on hm-riedly ; “ I 
seem to lose all power, and even all sense of individuality. 
You can imagine nothing more horrible than the sensa- 
tion of spiritual blankness and desolation and helpless- 
ness. It is like having the evil eye upon onej’ 

“Then,” he said, smiling at her in the effort to 
reassure her as though she were a little child, “I am 
going to give you a charm which an Arab woman gave 
me against the evil eye, and you must always wear it, 
and it will make you at least remember that there is one 
person who would give his life to help you.” As he 


84 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


spoke he detached from his watch-chain a little gold 
hand, such as one sees among the Mohammedans in the 
East, traced with certain mystic lines and a crescent on 
the palm. 

She took it from him and examined it with deep 
interest and an air of con fort and confidence; then she 
unloosened from her arm a bangle of plain gold with 
a ring at the clasp, and asked him to fasten the charm 
upon it. ‘‘It shall be my talisman,” she said, “ to guard 
me from evil.” 

She made no further allusion to Countess Adrian, but 
sat back silent and thoughtful till the close of the last 
act but one. Then she rose suddenly. “ Marmy,” she 
said, “I must go home. I have a headache. I can’t 
stay here any longer. Mr. Lendon will go behind and 
exp’ain to Oosway Keele, and thank him for us.” 

Mrs. Oubison got up obediently, and Lendon took 
them down and saw them into a cab. The mission 
entrusted to him obliged him to sit out the performance. 
As he went back to the theatre he met Sir Donald and 
Countess Adrian coming out. She stopped and spoke 
to him. 

“So your Improvisatrice, like myself, is bored with 
Cosway Keele ? ” 

“She is tired and not very well,” replied Lendon, 
“and like yourself, probably, she has seen the play 
before.” 

“ Oh ! one has seen it half-a-dozen times ; but like 


TEA m THE STUDIO. 


85 


everything at the Dionysion, it is a perfect picture, at 
which one can look in a dreamy way and fancy oneself 
taken back to the times it represents. Has she quite 
recovered from her fainting lit of the other night ? — ^your 
Improvisatrice, I mean.” 

“ I believe so,” Lendon answered guardedly ; though 
had not Sir Donald been present he would have tried to 
ascertain if Countess Adrian were aware of the curious 
influence she exercised. At that moment the footman 
appeared and her carriage was called. She turned back 
to him with a smile as Sir Donald offered her his arm. 

“ Mr. Lendon,” she said, I think you are almost the 
only person I have ever asked twice to come and see me. 
I assure you that many people find me interesting.” 

He was -taken aback by her frankness, but recovered 
himself sufficiently to frame an apology which might be 
accepted as a compliment. 

“ Well,” she said, “ you shall prove yo. sincerity, 
but not just yet. I am going to Paris for a few weeks ; 
when I come back again you shall hear from me.” 

He was glad to be able to tell Beatrice that she need 
not, for the pr3sent at least, dread the evil eye of Countess 
Adrian. It seemed to him that for the first few days 
after the encounter at the theatre the girl drooped a 
little, and was less enthusiastic about her work, less 
sanguine about the future. Miravoglia mournfully 
reiterated his enquiry. ‘‘What ’as ’e been doing?” 
and would not be satisfied with Beatrice’s repeated 


86 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS AHEIAN. 


statement that there was no “he’* in the case. Pro- 
bably Miravoglia would not have believed her had she 
told him the truth, and would have scouted the idea that 
a woman whom she had seen only twice, and to whom 
she had never spoken, was the cause of the disturbance. 
But simultaneously with Countess Adrian’s departure 
Beatrice revived, and shortly afterwards a great event 
occurred — one of those fateful accidents which tmm the 
current of an existence, and present the opportunity 
which makes or mars a career. 

For Beatrice’s opportunity has come. Now, at last, 
she is very happy. The manager has been found and, 
better still, the great part. She is to play Webster’s 
“ Ductes of Malfi.” 

London had from the first felt inspired by the con- 
viction that this was the predestined part, and he rejoiced 
now to think that she had studied it in the first instance 
at his instigation. The piece had not been played in • 
London for a generation, and at the time it was played 
had not ever had a fitting Duchess. Now the Duchess 
had come. 

It had been partly London’s doing. This especial 
actor-manager under whom Beatrice was to make her 
great appearance — a man of genius with the untiring 
perseverance, the power of organizing, and the capacity 
for detail and stage arrangement which ensured success 
for any production he might put on the boards of the 
Dionysion — was an old friend of the painter’s. 


TEA m THE STUDIO. 


87 


Cosway Keele — for he was this actor-manager — had, as 
has been told, seen Beatrice Brett’s performance at Mrs. 
Walcot Valbry’s, and had been much struck by its 
extraordinary power and originality. He had long con- 
templated the revival of Webster’s tragedy, he himself 
playing the part of Bosola, but had declared over and 
over again to his intimates that he knew no living 
actress capable of personating the ill-fated Duchess. 
Beatrice had impressed him strangely. “ I think I see 
my Duchess at last,” he said to London that very night 
at Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s ; and it was this remark which 
had caused Lendon to turn Beatrice’s attention to the 
Elizabethan dramatists. “ But,” added the manager, “ it 
is out of the question now ; and though I am not sure 
that I would not risk such an actress, untried though she 
is in England, I must wait. We shall see, at any rate, 
how she proves herself.” 

Strange things came about, however. Just as the new 
Dionysion production had been decided upon — a Shake- 
spearean comedy — and the scenic artists and the au- 
thorities on historic costume and furniture, whose services 
the theatre retained, were torturing their brains to pro- 
duce an effect that should beat even the Dionysion 
record, the leading lady fell suddenly and dangerously ill 
and threw all the Dionysion arrangements into, chaos. 
She was forbidden to act again for a year. In the mean- 
time what was to be done ? Who would take her place, 
and what play could be put on that would satisfy an 


88 


SOUL OF COUNTESS ADKIAN. 


exacting public which had been trained to demand much 
from Cosway Keele ? It was at this juncture that Lendon 
put in a word. “ Why not try ‘ The Duchess of Malfi/ ” 
he said, “and give the American Improvisatrice the 
part ?” 

Cosway Keele took a day to think over the scheme. 
He had already met Beatrice socially, now in a business 
capacity was introduced to her in her little study, and 
was dehghted with her interpretation of the part. Before 
many hours all was settled. Beatrice was to play in the 
great tragedy. To Bernard Lendon was entrusted the 
task of some revisions and alterations in the text, and as 
soon as this was done “The Duchess of Malfi” was to be 
put into rehearsal. 

Lendon set to his work with ardour. It gave him 
opportunities for consulting Beatrice, for studying her 
and for identifying himself with her aims and hopes, 
which were sweeter to him than any other pleasure that 
could at this time have been offered him. And the more 
her nature revealed itself to him, the more tender, true 
and womanly did it appear, the more did she seem to 
him not only an ideal to be worshipped, but a woman to 
be wholly loved. She had her little moods of despondency 
— ^nay, even of despair, when she declared herself inca- 
pable of realizing the creation, and prophesied for herself 
dire failure and for Cos way Keele disappointment and 
disaster. Then how he delighted to soothe and to 
encourage her and to buoy up the elastic artist spirit 


TEA m THE STUDIO. 


89 


till she was hopeful and self-confident once more. But 
she had, too, her times of artistic exaltation when the 
fire of genius burned, and, as Mrs. Oubison would have 
put it, the “influences” were propitious, when she 
astonished them at rehearsal and sent Cosway Keele away 
from the Dionysion under the conviction that he was 
about to introduce to the world a new Eachel. On the 
whole things went merrily at the Dionysion, and some 
doubts which had been felt as to the suitability of such 
a piece for the modern stage subsided. Lendon had cut 
out all the rough phraseology of a play which, but for the 
out-spoken language of the time, not then thought harm 
by woman or man, is pure as newly-congealed ice. He 
had shortened the play and made it end with the death 
of the sweet, sad, wronged heroic Duchess, the doomed 
victim of a brother’s hate and treachery. Never was 
woman more truly moulded for happiness and joy and 
love, more sweetly, purely passionate in her love. Yes, 
and she finds a lo7er worthy — at least not unworthy — 
of her, though of lowlier rank than hers ; and she stoops 
to him and lifts him to her heart, and they are married ; 
an 1 then her brother’s hate, rapacity, and cruelty sends 
her to her death. And what a death, and how she meets 
it : prayerful, gentle^ sublimely serene, absolutely undis- 
mayed by the coming death itself and by all its accom- 
panying and artificial horrors. 

'' Whether the spirit of greatness or of woman 

** Eeigns most in her I know not.** 

G 


90 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


“ These,” saxi Beatrice to Lendon, “ are the very 
words that first taught me the part. See, I have scored 
and underscored them.” 

“ Her waiting- woman’s words ?” Lendon said. 

“ Yes— she has so great a soul that she has lifted the 
very waiting-woman into a comprehension of it ! Shall 
I ever be able to put all my full sense of her love and 
her nobleness and her courage into words ? Oh, tell 
me 1” 

“You can, and you will, and all London will fall down 
before you,” Lendon exclaimed in the full rapture of 
the sincerest conviction, already proud of the anticipated 
triumph. 

“ I don’t think about that now — oh, hardly at all I 
I only think about her. I feel as if she wmuli be looking 
down on me from that Heaven to which she has gone. 
I think of her as a real woman. I feel her reality. Do 
you know, Mr. Lendon, I sometinies fancy in a half- 
dreamy sort of way that I shall feel her soul possessing 
me ; so that I ;^haU make her live again in me ? Do you 
think me extravagant, absurd ?” 

“ I think you have the Vtry soul of an artist,” he said. 
“ And see how the artist’s ambition triumphs over every- 
thing lower I You don’t care about the crowded houses 
and the applause any more ? ” 

“ They don’t come into my thoughts. I dare say if I 
succeed I shall enjoy the success to the full by-and-by, 
I am ambitious. Oh, yes ! I want to succeed. But, 


TEA IN THE STUDIO. 


91 


Mr. Lenvlon, if I can only play that part as I see it — as 
I see it of nights when I lie awake — well, then, it couldn’t 
be prevented — I must succeed I ” 

‘‘Come,” Lendon said cheerily, “you have spoken 
those words with a brave conviction worthy of the 
Duchess herself. Only make her speak like that, and you 
must succeed.” 

“But she has such wonderful lines to speak ; there is 
such variety in her, such high spirit, such gaiety, such 
chaff, e'S'en— yes, such downright merry womanish chaff ; 
and then the pathos, the passiou, the fervid love, the 
agony, the anger, the pity, the forgiveness. Oh ! shall 
I ever be able to do it all ?” 

“ Yon have done it all — ^you are doing it all,” Lendon 
said, delighted and satisfied. 

“ Well, it will be your doing,” she answered, dropping 
her voice— “yours and hers! We can think of the 
crowds and the. applause some other time, if they come. 
Now, I cannpt my8«il piaying lor umin, I am play- 
ing for her, and, and,” she blushed a little and half 
turned her head away, “ and for yovN 

“ Beatrice,” he exclaimed passionately ; “ Is that really 
true ? Do you feel that you care more to please me than 
to please the crowds who will throng to see you, and who 
will admire you, and call you great — ^yes, you know they 
will — and you- will smile serenely ; and you will turn to 
me ? At last, at last, you will learn to love me ? ” 

“ Hush,” she said, blushing very red ; “we are talking 


92 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


of the Duchess. We must only think of the Duchess 
now.” 

“ I have been very patient,” he urged. “ Have I not 
thought of the Duchess ? Have I not respected the 
Duchess’ claims all these weeks ? How can I help 
sometimes thinking of the woman, not of the artist ? Do 
not ask me to he more than man.” 

'*1 ask you only to he yourself,” she answered 
“ Come, hear me my lesson and tell me if I say it well,” 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’S SKY-PARLOUH. 


98 


CHAPTER YL 

Countess Adrian’s Sky-Parlour. 

In the excitement of the preparations for “ The Duchess 
of Malfi” Lendon had almost forgotten Co mtess Adrian. 
It was with something of a feeling of guilt that he one 
day read the following note : — 

“ Queen Anne’s Mansions, April .... 

“Dear Mr. Lendon, 

“ I have come back from Paris, and am writing 
to remind you of your promise to visit me in my sky- 
parlour. I have something that I want particularly to 
ask you. Can you come to me to-morrow at five ? 

“ Yours. 

“Agnes Adrian.” 

The sky-parlour proved to be a very attractive domi- 
cile, though it was at the very top of Queen Anne’s 
Mansions and two lifts were necessary to get to it. A 
Chinese boy, with a pig-tail and dressed in a sort of 
national costume of dark blue curiously embroidered, 
ushered Lendon along the inner corridor. It struck 
him that the Oriental attendant was quite in kee[>ing 
with a certain Eastern luxuriance and semi-barbaric 


94 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


magnificence peculiar to Countess Adrian herself, and his 
artistic sense was gratified by the due appearance of so 
judicious a touch of colour. The young Celestial retreated 
with all the gravity of his race to inform his mistress of 
her visitor, and Lendon had once again an opportunity 
to appreciate the harmony of effect arrived at between 
the lady and her surroundings. The boudoir was 
gorgeous, but it was a splendour in which, notwith- 
standing its audacity of combination, nothing jarred. 
Never were such vivid and bewildering pinks and greens 
and yellows so subtly interblend ed on wall and ceiling 
with deep crimson and burnished gold. The furniture 
was principally Japanese of the costliest description — 
inlaid work, lacquer and enamel, with here and there 
grotesque carvings, eccentric masks in old ivory, startling 
monsters in bronze and porcelain, exquisite pieces of old 
pottery -and bits of drapery heavily wrought in silver 
and gold, such as might have come straight from the 
Mikado’s palace. Everything about the room was fan- 
tastic and luxurious to the last degree. Almost every- 
thing might have fetched a price in an art collection. 
Lendon perceived with delight that the tea-service which 
stood in readiness before the fire was of rarest old Dutch, 
and that a casket lying open and filled with dainty 
French bonbons was of the most valuable cinque-cento 
workmanship. Amid all this congruous incongruity 
were different modern feminine trifles — Palais Eoyal 
knick-knacks — the latest thing in scent-bottles, photo- 


COUNTESS ADRIAN’S SKY- PARLOUR. 


95 


graphs with the signatures of distinguished persons, 
lying heaped pell-mell, in a bowl of ancient Tokio ware. 
A soft enervating odour pervaded the place. It came, 
he discovered, from a curious preparation of yot-pourri 
that blended with the fresh perfume of forced roses and 
early lilac and Parma violets. 

“ You like my den ? ” said the Countess Adrian’s 
deep musical voice beside him. He had not heard her 
enter. She was holding out both hands in frank wel- 
come, and her splendid eyes, glowing with power, passion, 
and rich vitality, were looking into his. Again he had 
the sensation of being almost oppressed by that super- 
abundance of life force which her whole presence con- 
veyed. He could, indeed — ^remembering by a curious 
association of idea, the words of Maddox Challis in that 
respect — fancy it well might extinguish or absorb into 
itself any feebler spark. To-day she was positively 
beautiful, and, certainly, did not deserve her titular 
epithet of the “ belle-Laide.” There was a soft rose 
flush upon her smooth cheek. The turn of her neck 
was enchanting ; so also were the curves of the ripe rod 
lips and the gleam of white teeth between them ; and so 
too was the shapeliness of her form, which seemed to 
undulate beneath the folds of an odd clinging sort of 
dress of some delicate Eastern fabric. 

“A thousand pardons. Countess,” Lendon began. 

“ We had the colour copied from one of the Japanese 
theatre-books,” she went on, seating herself at the table 


96 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


and pouring out a cup of tea as she talked. “It was 
very difficult to get the British workman to understand 
the scheme. All sense of colour seems to have been 
blotted out of you in your grey, grimy, foggy little island. 
For myself, since I cannot have the sunshine in which I 
was born I must try to make up for it by colour.” 

“You were born in a tropical country, Countess?” 
asked Lendou. 

“ I was born in Jamaica,” she answered ; “ and I have 
Spanish and French as well as English blood in my 
veins. The cabinets and draperies and things,” she 
went on as if pursuing a narrative, “ I brought myself 
from Asia.” 

“ I did not guess that you had been such a wanderer,” 
he said. 

“Yes. I have wandered all my life. I have never 
had a home. Sometimes,” she added sadly, “ I fancy 
that I never shall have one. Not that I regret my 
wanderings,” she added hastily ; “ they have thrown me 
among strange people and have taught me some strange 
things, though I am not quite so learned in Eastern 
lore as Maddox Ohallis. Do you know, by the way, 
whether he has really started for Lebanon ?” 

London answered in the negative. 

“ That man fascinates me,” said the Countess. “ He 
is the only person T have ever met who gives me the 
feeling that he could make me do what he pleased. I 
met him first at Pekin. I spent a whole year in India, 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’S SKY-PAELOUR. 


97 


China and Japan ; it was the year after my marriage 
with Count Adrian.” 

The idea crossed Lendon’s mind that it was strange 
she should thus composedly allude to a ceremony which 
the law-courts had pronounced null and void. Clearly, 
also, as she retained the title to which it had been decreed 
she had no right, there was wisdom in the bold part of 
assuming her history to be above reproach or question. 

He did not answer directly, but accepted the tea and 
sugar wliich she handed to him, with some commonplace 
complimentary remark upon the excellence and peculiarity 
of the brew. 

“ It’s Asiatic too,” she said. " I know what you are 
thinking of,” she added abruptly. “ You are wondering 
that I should speak of my husband with so little 
embarrassment — after all that you have heard and read 
in the newspapers. Now confess — isn’t it so ? ” 

“ I have heard — of course,” he said, not denying the 
inference. “ As for the newspapers, I am more in the 
dark than you think, for I was out of England at the 
time of the trial to which, I suppose, you refer.” 

“ At any rate you know the circumstances. I have 
no doubt they were in a hundred mouths at Mrs. Walcot 
Valbry’s the other night. I have no doubt, too, that 
not a few of the great ladies were indignant at meeting 
me, though they were glad enough to accept the 
hospitality of my hotel in Paris, in the old days. I dare 
ay, too, that people in general think I am trying to 


98 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


brazen it out, and take my appearance in society as a 
proof of my utter heartlessness. That is of very little 
consequence, but you will know that after a great storm, 
when the waters have been lashed to foam and the 
billows torn to their very depths, by-and*by the tumult 
subsides as though it had never been, and the surface of 
the sea is scarcely stirred by so much as a ripple.” 

“There was a great storm ? ” said Lendon question! ngly. 
“I am speal<ing of the storm in your own nature — not of 
the outside world — the newspapers and the gossip of 
scandal-mongers. That is all only a cyclone of straws.” 

She paused an instant with her eyes on his face. “ I 
. like to hear you say that,” she replied. “It gives me a 
kind of key to your character. I like a man to look 
upon the society-sensation part of the affair — the notoriety 
and all that kind of thing, you know — as a cyclone of 
slraws. Here is where the real tempest rages.” And 
she laid her hand lightly upon her breast. “ A storm ? 
Yes ; a hurricane, a tornado, a cataclysm ! Great 
Heavens ! How I suffered ! ” 

“ Ah, I can understand the suffering you may have 
gone through — the pain of a trust betrayed — of a noble 
love hurt to the death by the discovery that it had spent 
itself upon an unworthy object.” 

“ Yes — you. know. That I suppose was how you felt 
about Jessie Harford. You did love that woman, Mr. 
Lendon. If some one had only loved me like that I ” 

“ Surely there must be many ” — he began. 


COUNTESS ADRIAN’S SKY-PARLOUR. 


99 


‘‘Oh mapy !” she interrupted. “You think I am a 
woman to inspire love. Well, I suppose I can count my 
lovers by the score — perhaps I can’t count them at all — 
it would be a bore to try. But that’s not the kind of 
love I mean — love that loves on through ingratitude and 
baseness, and reverences itself too much to make a mere 
plaything of what, after all, was only in its very nature 
created for the lower uses. I wonder” — she added 
slowly — “ that you were not tempted to revenge yourself 
in that way, after you had found out how she deceived 
you, and when you loved the woman still.” 

“I was tempted — for a little while,” he answered. “I 
thank Heaven for the strength which enabled me to 
overcome the temptation. Don’t let us talk of that. 
Countess.” 

“ Why, since it is all dead ? It is dead, isn’t it ? ” 

“ My love for Jessie Harford is dead,” he said, quietly. 

He rose as he spoke and stood by the fire-place, absently 
fingering a quaint little porcelain figure which stood upon 
it. 

“ And that is what comes even of such love ! ” she said, 
looking at him intently. 

“ Of such love !” he repeated. “ No ! the love never 
dies, it lives again in another form. But, talk to me 
about yourself — if you will.” 

“ Oh, yes, I am an egotist ; I always talk about myself. 
But haven’t you noticed that nobody ever finds fault with 
a judicious egotism in the case of a man or woman who 


100 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


is in the nature of things interesting ? I suppose, with- 
out bad taste, I may assume that I am interesting ; at 
any rate some misguided people have found me so. You 
were wrong, Mr. London,” she went on, without waiting 
for his reply. It was a peculiarity of Countess Adrian 
that she never allowed time for a reply that must 
necessarily he a compliment. ‘‘Wrong, in your inter- 
pretation of what I said about my husband. There was 
no trust betrayed, in one sense. There was no discovery 
of the kind you mean. I always knew that he was 
ignoble. There was no love hurt to the death.” 

“ You mean that you did not love him ?” 

She shook her head. “ It is my misfortune perhaps — 
perhaps my good fortune, that I have never loved anyone, 
except myself. Tell me, what do you say to that ? ” 

“ I can hardly venture. Countess. Anything I might 
say would be either impertinent or ridiculous.” 

“ Oh ! I’m a woman who has got past convention- 
alities. That is part of my wretched position ; one of 
the cruellests of the wrongs he has done me. He has 
given the world permission to insult me.” 

“No!” exclaimed Lendon, eagerly. “You do in- 
justice to yourself, as well as to the world.” 

“ You are not likely to insult me, you mean. If you 
were, I should not be talking to you now, in this fashion. 
I have a fine scent for possibilities of disrespect. No, 
Mr. Lendon, I value your consideration and I value your 
opinion also. 1 should like you to understand me.” 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’S SKY-PAELOUR. 


101 


She rose too, and stood beside him, one elbow resting 
on the mantel-piece, her face turned towards him as she 
leaned slightly backward. Her eyes looked at him with 
a wistful expression. Her whole attitude — the tilt of her 
small head, the exquisite modelling of her chin and 
throat, the droop of her eye-lids — were indescribably 
alluring. She affected him as some strong perfume or 
heady wine might do. It occurred to him, in a whimsical 
manner, that were he not in love with Beatrice Brett, he 
should certainly fall in love with Countess Adrian. 

“ Come and sit down,” she said ; “ jou look so un- 
sociable standing there.” She motioned him to a chair, 
and sank herself upon a low cushioned sort of lounge, 
beside the fireplace. 

“ I want you to understand that I was never in love 
with my husband,” she w^ent on. “I was a wild ignorant 
Creole girl, hungering to see the world, and I married 
him because he was rich and had a title, and would open 
my oyster for me. I did really marry him, or at least T 
believe so. You don’t suppose that at sixteen I was so 
worldly wise as they tried to make out.” 

Sixteen ! ” he repeated pitifully — “ only sixteen ! ” 
Yes, I am younger than you fancied perhaps ; I am 
twenty-five — twenty-five,” she said again — “no great age ; 
and what have I not gone through ! I lived with him 
for nearly seven years, then he got tired of me and cast 
me off, but I did not choose to be flung aside like a — 
shall I say a Jessie Harford ? ” 


102 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


‘‘No ! ” he exclaimed savagely ; “you must not speak 
of her in that way.” 

“ Ah, I can hurt you. I want( d to. I said that on 
purpose. When I can make a man look as you did at 
that moment, I know that he is not quite indifferent to me. 
Forgive me. I don’t want you to be indifferent to me.” 
She put out her hand to him and let it fall again, as her 
tones fell also in a caressing cadence. 

“ You know that would be impossible ” he said. 

*• Would it ? Well, we shall sei. I took my claim 
into the law courts, and they decided against me — as 
law courts have a way of deciding against an unfriended 
woman. In spite of them he is my husband in deed and 
in fact, and I am his wife, yet we are both at liberty to 
marry again whenever we please.” 

“ Eeport says, doesn’t it ? that Count Adrian is about 
to avail himself of that liberty.” 

“ He is going to marry the daughter of one of your 
English peers. You see there are mothers even in your 
pious England who don’t hesitate to give their young 
daughters to a man of known profligacy, and who has a 
wife already living. There will be a gi’and wedding and 
columns in the Morning Post, which you may be sure 
will not be so ill-bred as to mention the fact of my 
existence. I have no doubt that if Count Adrian had 
been an Englishman and a politician, a great deal of 
pohtical capital would have been made out of that — 
misadventure, shall we call it ? I should have had 


COUNTESS ADRIAN’S SKY-PARLOUR. 


103 


champions by the thousand. They might even, had I 
the misfortune now to be poor, have got up a public 
subscription for me. But as it is, he is not an English- 
man, he has nothing to do with politics, and so the 
papers ignore his past, and Society opens its doors to him, 
and mothers welcome him as a suitor to their daughters. 
In my case everything would be different ; there is not a 
mother in England who would not think her son polluted 
by a maiTiage with me. Isn’t it so ? Tell me ! ” 

Lendon felt at a loss to reply ; all he could say was, 
“ You are very hard.” 

She laughed. ^ I knew you would rnaTje some banal 
remark. I hoped you would be more original. Of course 
I am hard ; and of course, too, it is as I say ; even 
Sir Donald. Urquhart is obliged to confess it.” 

Sir Donald, at any rate, proudly announced the 
probability of your bearing his name.” 

“ He is too devoted. lie thinks it advisable I should 
change one which is a subject of disagreeable notoriety* 
He is willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of his 
infatuation : I may say that without vanity. His love 
isn’t the kind of love I spoke of to you.” 

‘‘ You don’t love him, then ?” Lendon blurted. 

Love him ! My friend — I may call you my friend, 
may I not ? — it doesn’t imply anything compromising — 
do you think I have lived twenty-five years in the world, 
and during nine of them have been in familiar acquaint- 
ance with some of the wittiest and best-bred and 


104 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


altogether most fascinating men in the world, to succumb 
now to the attractions of Sir Donald Urquhart ? ” 

“Yet you have consented to marry him.” 

“ Not quite. It was agreed between us that he should 
announce the fact of our engagement : it doesn’t follow 
that the engagement is a binding reality. He believed 
that the announcement would improve my position. Of 
course he was right, a future Lady Urquhart may be 
no very great personage, but at least people are less 
eager to be unpleasant to her than to notorious, by 
courtesy Countess Adrian. Do you see ? And when 
any one offers me something good I never hesitate to 
take it, always provided that the extent of the obligation 
is clearly defined.” 

“And is that the case with Sir Donald? I should 
hardly have thought so.” 

“ I think it is. At any rate, if he is under any rosy 
delusion, that is not from any want of candour on my 
part. I have no doubt he would tell you so, if you 
pressed him.” 

“ 1 1 What right have I to question his or your 
arrangements ? ” 

“ None, I suppose ; l^but it is the right of a friend to 
be interested in one’s welfare.! You never answered my 
question. May I count on your friendship ? ” 

“ Most certainly, Countess. On my warm admiration 
and my humble services, if they can be of any use to you.” 

“I shall fasten you to your word presently. Mr. 


COUNTESS adeian’s SKY-PAELOUR. 


105 


Lendon, does it seem strange to you that I, being what I 
am, don’t jump at the prospect of marrying Sir Donald 
Urquhart ? ” 

“ It seems to me that perhaps you hardly appreciate 
his devotion at its true value.” 

“You mean that, on the face of things, there is a sore 
of heroism in his willingness to give his name to a 
woman whose own has been so smirched and bespattered. 
I don’t know, though that it is such a very ancient and 
honourable name. His grandfather was a nobody, who 
made money and voted steadfastly with the Government ; 
but let that pass. jJ^’o, I don’t think it is altogether 
heroism. You see. Sir Donald is not a very young man, 
and so has less to lose. He has no one to please but 
himself, and so can’t hurt anybody’s feelings of conse- 
quence to him. Then he is an art-collector and dilettante, 
and has a reputation for eccentricity, so can do with 
impunity many things that in anybody else would set 
Mrs. Grundy rampant. Added to all this, he is a man 
about town of no -very exalted moral standard. He ha^ 
never in his life denied himself a thing he wanted ; and 
he is rich enough to pay a long price for the article 
he fancies. He is going to pay a long price for me. 
He wouldn’t do it if he were not infatuated. Now, is 
that heroism ? ” 

“ As you put it, no.” 

“I put it after the way of a woman of the world. 
Now for my side of the question.” 

H 


106 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADBIAN. 


“ Ah ! your side of the question, about which I confess 
to feeling the deepest interest.’^ 

Well, why do I hold back ? Why have I stipulated 
for a year in which to make up my mind — a year in 
which, though we are bound before the world, I am 
free as air to give myself to any one I like better ? For 
the simple reason I have already told you : I have never 
been in love.” 

“ Forgive me for saying that this seems to me the 
most curious and interesting fact in your most remark- 
5 ble and interesting personality.” 

'‘You wouldn’t t^ke me for a woman of ice ? Well, 
I’m not. I’m a pent volcano. I could love with all my 
heart and soul and strength, if — if the right man came 
along. But he has never come. My Prince Charming 
has never stepped within the enchanted palace to awake 
the sleeping princess by his kiss.” 

An odd little exclamation broke involuntarily from 
London. It was half of pity, half of amusement. There 
did indeed seem something almost bordering on comedy 
in this picture Countess Adrian drew of herself as the 
. innocent slumbering beauty who had never thrilled to 
passion. Countess Adrian, of whom the world said — • 
he was too chivalrous to finish the sentence, even in 
thought. She seemed to have read what was passing in 
his mind : a deep blush overspread her face. 

“ You judge me like the typical man of the world,” 
she said, with a sadness which touched him infinitely; 


COUNTESS ADRIAN’S SKY-PARLOUR. 


107 


and no man of the world can ever conceive it possible 
that a woman may be dragged in the mire and yet 
through all keep the heart of a girl. Well, no matter.” 

“ Countess,” said Lendon hastily, fearing he had 
wounded her, “ I want to think of you only as you would 
have me think. You puzzle me ; you interest me. 
Teach me to understand you.” 

“ Then,” she said, we must agree, once for all, to drop 
conventional standards. Think of me — of this outer 
husk of me ” — and again she laid her two hands upon 
her bosom — ‘^as what the conditions of my life have 
made me. Think of the inner woman as still untouctel 
with cynicism, still with the capacity for enthusiasm — 
for devotion. The outer experiences are only as gar- 
ments to be worn or thrown aside. I am twenty-five, 
and I have had a rich wardrobe. Everything has 
happened to me except — Death and Love.” 

“ Why do you put death first ? ” he said. 

“ Because it might come to me at any moment. My 
mother died suddenly of heart-disease. I, too, have 
disease of the heart. Don’t speak of that : it is a subject 
I can’t bear to dwell upon.” 

He could not help a shudder. “ It is inconceivable I ” 
he exclaimed. 

“ Yes, I look splendidly well : I feel life thrilling in 
every pulse of me. But never mind. I am going to 
tell you something which will partly explain my conduct 
in regard to Sir Donald. It is this ; I am intensely 


108 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


superstitious. No, that is not the right expression. It 
would be more correct to say that I believe in occult 
forces.” 

“ You, too ! ” he exclaimed. 

Why do you say ‘ you, too ? * Have you been 
meeting anyone lately who goes in seriously for that sort 
of thing ? ” 

“It seems to me that everyone goes in for that sort 
of thing more or less seriously,” he answered evasively ; 
“ and ' occult ’ is the fashionable adjective.” 

“ Perh ips so. At any rate this superstition of mine 
is the reason of Maddox Challis’s influence over me,” she 
went on. “ I have learnt enough to know that he is an 
Initiate of the lower grade. He doesn’t choose to exert 
his powers— indeed, I believe it is a rule of the Brother- 
hood that they are not to be lightly displayed — but he 
could teach you and me some strange secrets of Nature, 
if he would. He won’t talk to me ; he doesn’t like me ; 
but he knows that I hiowy 

“And where did you get your knowledge. Countess ?” 
Lendon asked. 

“Oh, mine is only a smattering. I knew a man in the 
East— he was a Parsee — an asirologer — a sort of Mr. 
Isaacs and Ram- Lai combined. It was he who told me 
that this year would be the most fateful in my life. Now 
you know why I don’t choose to bind myself. I stake 
my all on this year — Death or Love.” 

She got up from her chair and held out her hand as if 


COUNTESS Adrian’s sky-parlour. 


109 


she would have dismissed him. He took her hand, and 
some impulse for which he could not account prompted 
him to raise it to his lips. 

You play a strange game, Countess,” he said ; “ and 
one in which it is you yourself who incur the least 
danger. To a man who accepted your challenge — Death 
or Love — ^the game might well prove fatal.” 

‘‘Why?” 

“Surely, to know you is to love you — but the Prince 
Charming fortunate enough to touch your heart must bo 
a rare and exceptionally endowed person.” 

“ You think so ?.” she said. 

“Isn’t it proved, since, as you say, you have never 
loved ? And yet, how many there must be who have 
loved you.” 

“ There is a fatality in that sort of thing. It is destiny 
— not temperament. Or, as the poets tell us, a wandering 
soul finding its twin.” 

“ Oh, the twin soul theory is a hackneyed solution of 
the problem why some two people love each other, 
and some other two do not. My theory is that certain 
forces in oneself reach their climax, and at the same given 
time certain outside currents converge and bring about 
a convulsion, and then it is, when one’s nature and one’s 
surroundings are ripe, that love comes. It is the ‘psycho- 
logical moment,’ in short. And given the psychological 
moment, there is bound to be a Prince Charming hanging 
round. Where, then, is the question of hazard ? ” 


110 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


Countess Adrian looked at him steadily for a moment 
or two before she replied. “Suppose,” she said, “that 
the man I loved, the man whom I knew would satisfy 
all the requirements of my being, for whom 1 had poured 
forth all that I had to give — what could never be taken 
back and given to another — suppose that he had no love 
to give me in return ? ” 

“ Impossible, Countess,” said London, “ unless ” 

“ Unless ?” she repeated. 

“ Unless he were devoted heart and soul to another 
woman.” 

“ There is the hazard of the game,” she said calmly. 
“He might be — married — or he might be, as you say, 
devoted heart and soul to another woman.” 

“ Heaven grant, Countess, that it may be happy love 
which awaits you ! ” 

“ Good-bye,” she said abruptly. “ Our talk this after- 
noon has interested me. You must come again. But I 
have said nothing that I intended to say, and I have 
said everything that I meant not to say. I don’t mean 
to flatter you ; but I am naturally a reserved person, and 
I dislike the after taste of indiscreet confidences.” 

“Oh, I beg you not to regret having given me a 
glimpse of your true self,” he exelaimed warmly. “ Surely 
what you have said could only heighten my admiration — 
my esteem.” 

“That will be for you to show me,” she answered, 
smiling. 


COUNTESS Adrian’s sky-parlour. 


Ill 


“ At least,” he said, you will allow me to hear what 
it is that you intended to say ? ” 

“My object, in short, for asking you to call to-day. I 
had been thinking of sending for you for several days. 
I have really been back from Paris for some time, but I 
had a notion that you were otherwise engaged, and I felt 
a most unaccountable and unusual timidity. However, 
as you see, I took my courage in both hands and sent 
for you.” 

“Well? Is it anything I can do ? If so, command me.” 

“ Yes, it is something I want you to do. Oh, it’s not 
a thing that you will dislike — at least, I hope not. But 
let that stand over for tc-day. I don’t feel in the mood 
to ask favours.” 

“ I assure you. Countess, whatever ^ the favour may 
be, it is granted. For you to ask a favour from me 
is to confer one.” 

“We shall see. I will write. And now that you 
know your way to my sky parlour, I am always at home 
after five o’clock. 

He took his leave, and made his journey down ; and 
it was not till he had reached the dark little court outside 
the Mansions, that he remembered the fact that Beatrice 
Brett’s name had never once been mentioned during the 
long afternoon talk. 


112 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


CHAPTER YIL 

Countess Adrian’s Portrait. 

Bernard Lendon was in his studio the morning after 
his visit to Countess Adrian. He was by way of having 
taken up work again, and the place was littered with 
sketches and unfinished landscapes, the result of his 
American trip. There was also on the stocks a por- 
trait of a very handsome and fashionable woman, newly 
married, whose husband was a friend of his and had 
commissioned him to paint his bride. He was expecting 
its original for a sitting when a carriage drove up to the 
door. He waited in the full anticipation that she and no 
other was his visitor. He was mistaken, however. The 
door leading on to the gallery was opened, and the 
portiere held aside for a lady to pass through and descend, 
but the lady was Countess Adrian. 

She came down the stairs with composed undulating 
grace, raising her veil as he advanced to meet her, and 
she smiled as if there appeared to herself something odd 
and amusing in this impromptu call. 

“ You see, I have taken upon myself to return your 
visit— and very soon,” she said, when the first greetings 
were over. “ I was going to write to you as I said, but 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’S POETEAIT. 


113 


the impulse seized me to come and see you instead. I 
always act on impulse ; so I am here to tell my busines 
in person.’' 

He offered her a chair, and she unwound some of her 
furs. 

“ Isn’t that a dangerous creed, Countess ?” 

“Very likely ; it has certainly not answered as a whole 
in my case. Let us hope that it may turn out better iii 
detail. Well, I told you I meant to ask you to do some- 
thing for me. Briefly, I am going to give you a commis 
sion, if you will accept it.” 

“ A commission. Countess !” 

“ There’s nothing odd in that. You take commissions 
to paint portraits,” and she glanced at the one on the easel. 
“ I want you to paint mine. Does that please you, or the 
reverse ?” 

“ Of course, it pleases me.” 

“ Then you will do it ?” 

“ With the utmost pleasure.” 

“But I want it done quickly — ^a half-length. I shall 
sit to you every day.” 

“ So much the better.” 

“ Really, you are delightfully accommodating. I don’t 
know why I imagined that you would make all manner 
of difficulties, but I did. I assure you I was quite 
nervous about making my request. But now to business » 
please. I am quite in serious earnest— about my dress, 
and the time, and everything else. “ It is to be given to 


114 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


Sir Donald Urquhart on his birthday, three weeks hence ; 
so you see there is no time for delay.” 

When the preliminaries were settled, she got up and 
roved about the room, examining the tapestry, and making 
little discursive remarks as she went along. “You think 
he will like the portrait? It is so dreadfully difficult to 
hnd a present for a man like Sir Donald. That’s the 
worst of being so rich. But you think it’s a good idea ?” 

“ If only I can do you justice.” 

“ Oh ! I am sure you will do me far more than justice : 

shall be at my very best. I am certain that it is quite 
as necessary for the sitter to be on the alert — sympathetic, 
vou understand — as the artist himself. And I like your 
portraits. Looking at that” — she stopped before the easel 
on which his latest work was placed — “ one would almost 
fancy that Mrs. Jarvis had a soul. Tell me,” she 
added, turning to him as if a new idea had struck her, 
“ did Maddox Challis ever talk to you about the possi- 
bility of forcing one person’s soul into another person’s 
body ?” 

“ I have a distinct recollection of hearing him speak 
on that subject at Sir Donald’s supper-table, the first 
time I met you.” 

“ Yes, I remember. Well, do you believe in it ?” 

“As much as I believe in this.” He took up a yellow- 
covered French novel which was lying on a small table 
beside his own particular lounging-chair, and held it 
towards her. 


COUNTESS Adrian’s portrait. 


115 


She read thetitle—“ Th6ophile Gautier’s ^Avatar' I 
know it. Odd that you should have been reading that 
book just before the thought came uppermost in my 
mind. I always say what is uppermost ; that’s another 
article of my dangerous creed. I don’t know why you 
should be so seep ical. The theory of the Avatar is as 
old as the oldest religion. Haven’t you ever felt, when 
you took laughing-gas or chloroform,” she went on, 
“ that your soul left your body ?” 

“ Yes, I have,” he answered, laughing ; and it must 
have gone on some pleasant excursion, for I remember, oi 
awaking, that T felt confoundedly sorry that it had come 
back again.” 

Oh ! I think it is a frightful sensation. I can 
imagine nothing more horrible than the sudden know- 
ledge that one must die —to go forth cold, naked, and 
grey, into blank space — to have no body, no soft warm 
flesh. I love my downy skin.” She held out her arm 
as she spoke, and pushed back her sleeve and looked 
tenderly on the delicate velvety surface. To have no 
power of animal enjoyment ; to lose the pleasure of 
basking in sunshine, the joy of physical sense, and to be 
conscious all the while of one’s craving and one’s nothing- 
ness ! Ghastly ! No ; give me life — life — long life ! ” 
“Yet,” said London, “I have been told that death 
brings with it the strangest sense of peace and content.” 

“ Not for me. It would be a very tearing apart of 
spirit and flesh. I should be one of those vampire- 


116 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


spirits one reads of — you know Sheridan Le Fanu’s 
story ? — and renew my life with human blood ; or should 
I be strong enough, I wonder, to carry out Mr. Challis’s 
idea, and usurp a body at the expense of some weak 
unfortunate soul ? Mr. London, how would one feel, I 
wonder, encased in some one else’s body ? Would one 
keep its consciousness of identity ? and, if so, what an 
amusing sense of paradox would run through all ex- 
perience ; or would it be a mere confused blending of 
personalities — a bewildering jumble of past and present 
impressions — a sort of battle between spirit and flesh — 
a mystery without a clue ? What do you think ?” 

“ How cau I form an idea of what is absolutely out- 
side experience ? ” 

“ Oh ! but it need not be. Did you not hear Maddox 
Challis say that such an Avatar was quite possible ?” 

“ Ah, then, we want Maddox Challis here to explain 
the process.” 

“He is quite capable of coming— in his astral form. 
I know that once, when his real body was in Palestine, 
his astral shape ap^ eared to a friend of his in London, 
and warned him of a coming danger.” 

“ In time to avert it ? ” 

“Yes. He never plays those pranks without a 
gufl[icient motive ; but he cannot bear any allusion to 
that story, and will answer no questions about it. The 
man to whom he appeared was a changed person from 
that day. He had been a materialist before ; now he 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’s PORTEAIT. 


117 


has entered the Eoman Catholic Church, and joins 
mortification of the fiesh to the highest mysticism.” 

“ Are you a Catholic ?” asked Lendon, abruptly. 

‘‘No. Frankly, I am nothing. I own no God but 
nature, and I want nothing higher.” There was a short 
silence, during which Countess Adrian examined a sketch 
lying on an easel near her. “ I wish I knew whether I 
should lose my identity,” she went on, reflectively, as if 
she were again seriously considering the possibilities of 
such a transformation as that to which she had alluded. 
“I don’t respect myself in the least, Mr. Lendon. 1 
know that there are hundreds of millions of more estimable 
persons ; but I am not uninteresting, even to -myself. I 
shouldn’t like to give up my own identity. With all my 
faults and follies, and God knows they are numerous 
enough to wreck a dozen lives, I find myself bon 
camarade. We have gone through a good deal together, 
this Agnes Adrian and I ; we should not like to part 
company. Mr. Lendon,” she added suddenly, not waiting 
for him to reply ; “ why do we always get upon horrors ? 
Good-by, till to-morrow ! ” As she went up the stairs, 
she stopped, and, looking down upon him, asked, 
“ By the way, have you seen the Improvisatrice 
lately ?’’ 

The suddenness of the question startled Lendon. He 
felt that his face changed. He answered lamely that he 
had called upon her a few days before. 

The Countess’ penetrating gaze was confusing. 


118 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


‘‘ She is going to play the Duchess of Malfi, I hear. 
Tan she do it ? ” 

“ Mr. Cosway Keele at any rate thinks so/^ 

“ I know the play ; it is one of the parts I have always 
thought I should like to act. Did you know that after 
my— my louleuersement''^ — she gave her shoulders a little 
shrug — “ I thought of going on the stage ? 

had never heard it,” he answered; “but that goes 
for nothing.” 

“No! You were oddly ignorant about me; and I 
thought I was famous ! Yes, I actually went to a 
manager. One had to do something. I was poor, with 
the habits and tastes of tbe Second Empire. I couldn’t 
be a governess. No one would hire me as a servant. 
There was nothing but to be a barmaid or an actress. 
Well, luckily for me, an old man who had been in love with 
me died and left me a fortune, and so I was spared the 
necessity of earning my bread. But the Duchess ! You 
came over from America with her, did you not ? ” 

He replied that they had travelled in the same 
steamer. 

“ And you are altering the play ? You see her very 
often, of course,” she went on. Then, without waiting 
for his answer, said, “ Shall you marry her ? ” 

“Wouldn’t it be more to the purpose to say, ‘Will she 
marry me ? ’” he returned, with an awkard attempt at 
pleasantry. “ Miss Brett is wedded to her art.” 

“ Oh ! That is nonsense. All women who do any- 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’S POETEAIT. 


119 


thing are wedded to their art, till the art of love proves 
more attractive. But are you going to marry her ? ” 

I have never asked her,” he replied. 

She was thoughtful for a moment. “ Are you going to 
paint her then ? ” 

“ Eeally, Countess, I have not thought of that either.” 

“ I always believed that was a painter’s first thought 
when he saw a beautiful woman. And she is beautiful. 
Why did she faint so suddenly the other night ? ” 

“ She has a strange fancy that it was because you 
looked at her ?” 

Countess Adrian bent forward quite eagerly. ‘‘That 
is a curious idea.” 

“ It is an idea which has taken possession of her. She 
dreads you with a superstitious and unreasoning dread. 
She belieres that you have the evil eye. She thinks 
that if you chose to exert your power you could make 
her fail in a great part.” 

“ Oh, I am not so wicked as that,” Countess Adrian 
laughed softly. “ She has all my good wishes for success 
in the Duchess of Jilalfi. She will succeed, I am sure 
of it.” 

“ Yes, I am sure of it also,” answered Lendon. 

“But, tell me,” the Countess went on, “ for this to me 
is deeply interesting. Is that exactly how she feels ? She 
was really conscious the other night that it was my in- 
fluence which affected her and made her unable to go on 
acting ? ” 


120 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


Don’t you know it ? ” answered Lendon, almost 
roughly. He was jarred inexpressibly by the cool manner 
in which Countess Adrian appeared to weigh poor 
Beatrice’s agonies. It reminded him somehow of the 
scientific interest of a viyisector. “ You know that you 
meant to make her feel your influence that evening. 
Was it quite kind to experimentalize upon one so 
delicate, and at a moment too when she was necessarily 
more emotionally susceptible than at other times ? ” 

Her face seemed to pale a little and her eyes gathered 
fire as they fixed themselves upon him while he spoke. 
“On the contrary, she ought not to have been at a dis- 
advantage. One might have supposed her so absorbed 
in, and identified with, the character she was representing 
as to be quite impervious to any outside impressions. 
Come, there’s an interesting and instructive problem 
for dramatic psychologists to squabble over. I commend 
it to you in your new capacity of playwright and dramatic 
critic.” 

“It is a problem that does not interest me,” he 
answered coldly. 

“ But I know what does interest you ; and that is — 
Miss Beatrice Brett. I don’t know what you mean by 
asking if it was kind of me to experimentalize in that 
way. I never thought of it. I won’t admit anything as 
to my motives. In the first place you have no right to 
assume that I had any malevolent intention.” 

“ I don’t assume it. I only ask you to be merciful 


COUNTESS AUEIAN’S POETEAIT. 


121 


in future. Of course, Miss Brett’s dread of you is only 
an imagination. It seems almost absurd to discuss it 
seriously, but imagination may work great havoc with a 
nervous system so highly wrought as hers.” 

Countess Adrian had reached the gallery and was 
standing a little above him, as leaning against the 
balustrade she looked down on him with a grave and yet 
satisfied smile. 

“Yes,” she said, “it does seem absurd to discus.^ 
seriously a merely elementary experiment in occultism. 
I am rather ashamed of it. It was an experiment. I 
wanted to see what it was possible to do when one con 
centrated one’s will-power upon a person susceptible to 
magnetism.” 

London could have imagined that she was experimen- 
talizing at this moment upon himself, so deep and steady 
was her gaze. Nevertheless, he felt curiously unaffected 
by it. 

“ Why did you choose Miss Brett as a subject ?” he 
asked. 

“ Because I thought she seemed a likely one ; and 
then everyone’s attention was drawn to her. Tell her 
though that she need not be afraid, I will not do it 
again.” 

“Thank you.” He laughed a little awkwardly. 
“Apart from any interest I may feel in Miss Brett, I 
have very strong interest in the fate of the Duchess of 
Malfi. But tell me, Countess, do you go about the world 

I 


122 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


choosing like another ‘ She ’ whom you will ‘ blast ’ with 
your eyes? Oughtn’t I to take this as a warning to a 
rash artist who is so venturesome as to try and paint 
those same dangerous orbs ?” 

She dropped her gaze at once aud flushed again as 
rosily as a girl. 

You know quite well that my eyes are not dangerous 
to you. It annoys me when you take that sneering 
cynical tone. I shall not tell you any more of my occult 
experiments.” 

With these words she left him. 

It must be owned that, during those mornings in the 
week which were devoted to the portrait, London found 
Countess Adrian a very agreeable companion. She was 
certainly a delightful object of contemplation ; and she 
had not walked the world so freely without acquiring 
ideas sufficiently bold and varied to keep a listener’s 
mind pleasantly on the stretch. Her frankness was 
amazing. She seemed to want to convey to London 
that he of all beings was the one whom she most desired 
should know her in her heights and depths and with all 
possible extenuating explanations. She appeared to wish 
to disarm any outside criticism which might reach him, 
by giving him first her own version of various episodes 
in her somewhat adventurous career. She had a pic- 
torial way of relating things, and put into her accounts 
of herself a richness of colour and a mysterious sug- 
gestiveness of complex motive that threw a rosy glow of 


COUNTESS ADREAN’s PORTRAIT. 


123 


poetry and romance over all that she told of her actions 
and moods. 

He was more than ever impressed by the tropical luxu- 
riance of her temperament. Her audacity had something 
of the unconsciousness of childhood, and there seemed 
truth in her remark upon herself that, in spite of her 
many experiences, she was at bottom absolutely natural. 

She had the ways of a woman at war with society ; but 
her manner clearly indicated that she considered the 
challenge had not been laid down on her part. “ Do 
circumstances make temperament, or does temperament 
make circumstances ? ” was one of the riddles she pro- 
pounded. Her moods were quite incalculable. Some- 
times she would come to the studio and pose with an air 
of chastened sweetness worthy of a Madonna, while her 
speech was gentle and tender as the murmurs of a cooing 
dove. At other times she paced the room like a caged 
lioness, as if she needed some vent for her fiery and 
impetuous energy ; and as under these conditions serious 
work was out of the question, she would propose that 
he should walk with her along the Embankment, or 
cross the bridge to the Battersea region, and tramp the 
Park till she was subdued and conventional again. 
Sometimes she had all the dignity of a great lady pure 
and simple ; sometimes she would smoke a cigarette, and 
toss off her little glass of cognac with the unrestraint of 
a cocotte. Yet through all these chameleon changes she 
was always herself, racy, original, daring, refined, and 


124 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


altogether brilliant, with that nameless shadow of sadness, 
that not too obtrusive touch of the sensuous, which 
increased her bewildering charm. 

It struck him as curious that her talk so often touched 
on mystic subjects. He wondered where she had got 
her curious lore. She told him once that, if he had ever 
lived in Paris, he would not be surprised that her taste 
ran in that direction ; for that not only were Professor 
Charcot’s experiments carried on in private life in certain 
sections of society, but that the modern medical school 
numbered many an aspiring dabbler in black magic. 
She laughed off his questions as to whether she had 
tampered with the forbidden knowledge, and said that 
she had always gone on the principle of putting out 
feelers in every direction. What was life worth if you 
must be bound down to one narrow groove of experience? 
She liked to sip every variety of beverage, and this was 
only one phase of her character. When he knew her 
better, he would discover that she was equally at home as 
a sportswoman, a woman of letters, and a butterfly of 
society. Still he noticed that there were two subjects 
which were always obtruding themselves in her conversa- 
tion — so-called occultism and Maddox Challis. “ He is 
the only person in the world that I am afraid of,” she 
said once, ‘‘ and I am afraid of him because he knows 
me too well. Don’t misunderstand me,” she added 
laughing, as Lendon looked at her, perplexed as to her 
meaning; “I don’t want to convey in a roundabout 


COUNTESS ADBIAN’s POBTEAIT. 


125 


fashion that I am a secret murderess, and that I have a 
mysterious crime on my conscience of which Maddox 
Challis only possesses the key. I have never done any- 
thing half as bad as the evil deeds for which the world 
already gives me the credit.” 

“ Why, then ?” he asked. 

“ Why ? I am going to tell you something. There’s 
a little old lady in London whom I know, and who has 
clairvoyant eyes — the clearest, most penetrating blue 
eyes, which seem to be looking far, far into space. 
tSo, in fact, they are. They have a terrible power, those 
eyes; and 1 always' avoid that old lady. The odd thing 
is that she is quite simple and unsophisticated, and doesn’t 
seem in the least to realise what a terror she might be to 
some people, and what a help to others. If she were here 
now, she could toll you that you were surrounded by a 
crowd of bodiless beings, and she would describe them 
to you. Perhaps they might be good spirits who prompt 
you to good actions and sweet and gracious thoughts, or 
they might be very evil ones — and then she would turn 
very pale and shudder, and go away from you as soon as 
she could without actual rudeness. Once she paid a visit 
to Monte Carlo, and she described the galerie behind the 
rows of players invisible to everybody but herself. These 
people were the spirits of suicides mostly ; and some had 
their throa' s gaping, and some had part of their faces 
and heads blown away, and were bespattered with blood, 
and some had the marks of strangulation, and others 


126 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


were only greedy and excited with the passion for play. 
They hung on the croupier’s call as eager and as fascinated 
as the living themselves, and would stretch out their 
hands gloatingly over the gold. They would whisper in 
the ear of some player, and the player seemed to be 
obeying the invisible prompters, who would often laugh 
with the most execrable grimaces when the stake was 
raked in, as though they were glad of the ill-fortune, and 
they would stoop and whisper again and again, till the 
player, goaded to desperation, doubled and doubled, and 
lost and lost. Well, who would play at Monte Carlo if 
they could see what that little old lady saw ? Maddox 
Challis is like that. He sees within and without, but he 
is not simple and unsophisticated like the little old lady. 
He knows the power he possesses, and he says nothing. 
He bides his time. He only looks at you, and pays courtly 
compliments, and lets you know by his eyes that he 
hiows. I dare say that, while he is smoking cigarettes, 
at this present moment, in the courtyard of his house at 
Damascus, he is perfectly well aware that you and I are 
talking about him here.” 

Lendon felt an odd reluctance to tell Beatrice of that 
conversation with Countess Adrian which had reference 
to herself, and of Countess Adrian’s promise that she 
would not again experimentalize, as she had done, upon 
the memorable occasion at Mrs. Walcot Talbry’s. There 
were several reasons for his disinclination to open up the 
subject. The rehearsals of “ The Duchess of Malfi” were 


COUNTESS ADEIAN’S PORTRAIT. 


127 


in their full swing. Brain, nerves, and energies of every 
one in the theatre were concentrated upon what was felt 
would be either an enormous success or an ignominious 
failure. Cos way Keele was terribly anxious. The tragic 
atmosphere of medimval Italy seemed to pervade the 
Dionysion. The actors were frightfully nervous, and 
among themselves prophesied disaster. Theatrical people 
are famous for superstitions, and the fact was commented 
upon direfully that the stage cat — that friendly familiar, 
without which it is supposed that no theatre can be 
lucky — ^had died during the first week of the rehearsals. 
There were other minor portents of ill. Even the scene- 
shifters moved about as if overwhelmed by a weight of 
care. As for Beatrice herself, she lived in her part. She 
was no longer Beatrice Brett ; she was the Duchess of 
Malfi. She was not the young American actress about 
to make an ambitious venture which should raise her to 
giddy heights of success, or send her tottering down to 
join the crowd of failures. She was not the Beatrice 
who lay on the sofa in her little study, and looked out on 
the trees in Regent’s Park. She was not the Beatrice 
who paced the boards of the Dionysion, or waited at the 
wings for her cue, or sLood patiently under the hands ot 
designer and dressmaker. This was not Regent’s Park. 
This was not the Dionysion. It was a stately Italian 
palace, and outside, the roses and the orange-trees were 
in bloom, and the poor Princess of court etiquette, 
impatient of her brother’s jealous surveillance, waited 


128 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


and watched for the hour when she should steal forth 
to meet her lowly-born husband-lover. She had no 
thought for the common things of London life. She 
had forgotten even her terror of Countess Adrian, since 
for the time Countess Adrian had disappeared from her 
horizon. And why should Lendon rouse the morbid 
fancy, and even, in reassuring her, remind her anew of 
the slumbering dread, and perhaps revive all her super- 
stitious fancies ? And then, again, he had a feeling of 
suppressed irritation at the mere notion that she was so 
far in Countess Adrain’s power. It annoyed him to 
think that this girl, who was his ideal of all that was 
pure and perfect, should be at the mercy, as it were, of a 
woman of whom the world spoke slightingly. It was 
only in association with Beatrice that the thought of 
Countess Adrian’s antecedents vexed him. He would 
have taken her part loyally against her traducers as he 
would that of a trussed comrade. In his own mind, and 
even hitherto in speaking of her to Beatrice, he had 
maintained that she was a wronged and maligned woman. 
But a man may entertain all these sentiments about a 
certain woman and yet be unwilling that she should 
exercise an unaccountable influence over the one woman 
dearest to him. 


THE GEEAT NIGHT. 


129 


CHAPTER yill. 

The Great Night. 

It was a mixture of these feelings which made Lendon, 
when he was with Beatrice, avoid mentioning that 
Countess Adrian was sitting to him for her portrait. 
The discovery came about by accident, though it must 
not be supposed that he made any special point of con- 
cealment. In truth his mind, except during the sittings, 
was too much occupied with Beatrice herself and with 
the fate of the play, to concern itself deeply about 
Countess Adrian. He was working at the background 
one afternoon when, to his great surprise, Mrs. Cubison 
and Miss Brett were announced. 

They had come to consult him upon a matter in the 
Duchess’ costume, about which Cosway Keele and the 
Dionysion authorities found themselves in sudden per- 
plexity. An impulse had seized Beatrice to drive along 
the embankment to Chelsea. They had got into a han- 
som at the door of the Dionysion, where they were. So 
Mrs. Cubison explained. The matter of the costume 
could be settled at once by reference to a volume in the 
library, and Lendon at once proposed an adjournment 
thither. Mrs. Cubison declared her intention of waiting 


130 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADIITAN. 


for them in the studio, thus taking an opportunity of 
resting her poor legs and head, and forthwith proceeded 
to repose herself on the sofa. As she passed the easel at 
which Lendon had been working, Beatrice stopped with 
a startled exclamation and stood motionless before the 
portrait. 

‘‘ Ah ! I forgot,” said Lendon a little awkwardly. 
“ I am painting Countess Adrian. It is a curious sort 
of commission, and I am bound to secrecy, for it is to 
be a birthday present to Sir Donald Urquhart, and till 
the day comes he is to know nothing about it.” 

Beatrice said not a word for a minute, but looked 
intently at the picture. 

“ Is that why you did nob tell me ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ In good truth,” he answerel, “ when I am with you 
I can think of nothing but you and the Duchess of Malfi. 
And then I did not. want to revive an unpleasant 
association.” 

Beatrice touched the little charm at her wrist. “ You 
need not have been afraid ; she has been away. And 
besides, I have been relying on my talisman.” 

‘‘Or rather work has driven away the foolish fancy — 
sober, serious, earnest work— for it was a foolish fancy, 
Beatrice, you will admit it now.” 

She shook her head. “ It was no fancy ; and even as 
I look at her portrait, the eyes seem to follow me and 
make me shiver with that strange horrible dread. I shall 
never get over it — never. But I am stronger and better 


THE GKEAT NIGHT. 


131 


able to face it when I have you to help me.’^ She paused 
a moment. As if with an effort she turned away from 
the portrait. Presently she said to him in a tone of 
alarm — “ She is back again from Paris ? And she will 
be at the Dionysion first-night. Oh ! what shall I do ? ” 

“My dear child,” he said soothingly. “It makes me 
miserable to see how this thing unnerves you. I have 
got a message for you from Countess Adrian herself, 
which I had not meant to give you until you yourself 
should bring up the subject. Perhaps it may comfort 
you.” 

“ You told her that I was afraid ? ” 

“ I told her that you were delicate, nervous and over- 
wrought, and that imagination is apt to run riot wi h 
such an organization as yours. Well, she bade me tell you 
that she would never experimentalize, as she called it, on 
you again, and that' you had her heartiest wishes for 
success as the Duchess of Malfi. You will find her one 
of the most sympathetic of your first-night audience.” 

She gave another little shiver. “ Tell me,” she said, 
“you are painting her picture, you have many oppor- 
tunities of hearing her talk. You should be in some sort 
of position to know whether this instinctive dread of 
mine has any foundation in fact. Do you think she is a 
good woman ? ” 

He hesitated. With the girl’s large clear eyes full upon 
him, it seemed to him impossible to answer from his 
heart that he believed Countess Adrian to be a good 


132 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


woman. “ I don’t know ; I cannot tell,” he answered. 

Don’t let us talk of Countess Adrian any more. Come 
to the book-room and we will look up the Duchess’ 
sleeve.” 

She went up the stairs silently, and followed him as he 
led the way to a quaint how-windowed room, which con- 
tained the celebrated Stothard prints, and a collection of 
volumes rare enough to satisfy a most fastidious collector. 
It was some time before they settled the vexed question 
of the pattern of the Duchess’ sleeve. Then the prints 
had to be examined. And then some curious Moorish 
brass work took her fancy. He thought she had quite 
forgotten Countess Adrian ; but after she had said that 
they must go down and wake up Marmy, she paused, and 
returned again to the subject. 

“It is humiliating to confess that I am relieved at 
Countess Adrian’s promise to spare me,” she said, “ but 
it is true. And I am almost glad to know that she was 
consciously exerting her will against me. Perhaps now 
that I am warned and on my guard, I might have some 
strength to resist. But I feel that I could not act if that 
power was working against me. It was like a sort of 
death that night. Everything seemed to go out of me, 
and there came the most appalling sensation of absolute 
loneliness and terror. Then I fainted. But I will be 
strong,” she added feverishly. “I can be strong, for 
now I have you to help me.” 

“ Oh Beatrice,” Lendon cried. “ You don’t know how 


THE GEEAT NIGHT. 


I'd'S 


happy those words of yours make me. They give me 
hope and courage. They lift me nearer to you. Don’t 
let us talk of Countess Adrian, dear. Let us talk of 
ourselves. Oh, if only I could be certain that you would 
let me help you always — in everything. If only I might 
be close to you always to protect you from all trouble, to 
take the burden of all that perplexes and alarms you. 
These imaginary terrors would vanish away into the night 
from which they had sprung, and my love would be like 
a wall encompassing you and guarding you from every 
hurtful influence.” 

“ Your love !” she replied, in a subdued half- wondering 
tone. 

“You know that I love you,” he exclaimed passion- 
ately. “ I have loved you from the first moment that I 
saw you on the steamer. I love you as I have never 
loved any other woman in the world — purely, wholly, 
devotedly. I don’t want to hide from you that I have 
loved before. I cared once for a woman who — who was 
unworthy. That love is dead — a thing of the past ; and 
deep as it was, it seems nothing — nothing in comparison 
with the love I feel for you.” 

It was the first time he had declared his love so un- 
reservedly, though over and over again, in every word 
and look he had implied it. She drew back a little, as if 
he had pained her. 

“Hush,” she said, “you mustn’t say that. You 
mustn’t talk to me of love — now.” 


134 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


“ How can I keep silence, when your voice, your look, 
something in your eyes, in your manner when we are 
together half implies that you do care for me a little ? 
Oh ! Beatrice, you know it is so. You know that there is 
sympathy between us. You are happy in my com- 
panionship.” 

Oh, yes ! ” she answered simply. But Mr. Lendon — 

that is not love.” 

“ It would soon grow to be love,” he urged, “ if only 
you would give your heart full play, if only it might not 
be a forbidden subject between us.” 

“ It must be so still,” she answered. “ I cannot think 
of love yet.” 

“ But a little later,” he pleaded, “ when you know me 
better, and trust me more.” 

“ I don’t need to do that,” she said ; “ I have trusted 
you always. I trusted you not to be like other men who 
have wanted to make love to me. I trusted you to be 
my fiiend and to have my career at heart.” 

There was a note of reproach in her tone which touched 
him keenly. 

‘•Oh! Beatrice,” he said, “you expect too much of 
me — ^you expect me to be more than human ; how can I 
help loving you ? And have I not your career at heart ? 
There is no one who thinks so much of it as I do— yes, 
not even you yourself — for you don’t see the dangers as I 
see them. You don’t see that you need some one to lean 
upon. Some one to stand between you and the jars 


THE GREAT NIGHT. 


135 


and shocks your sensitive nature must inevitably suffer. 
You don’t see that, however brilliant your life may 
be — and it will be that, for you will certainly succeed — 
the more brilliant indeed that it is, more lonely it 
will be.” 

“ I do know that,” she answered sadly j “ you can little 
guess how lonely I have felt, even here in London. 
Do I not know how lonely I shall feel on the first night 
of the ‘Duchess of Malfi,’ more lonely if it is success 
than if — if it be failure.” 

“No, Beatrice,” he said, taking her hands in his ; “you 
will not be lonely, for I shaU be there, and my whole heart 
will be with you.” 

She did not answer. They stood thus with hands 
clasped, both looking out on the little garden gay with 
its spring bulbs. 

“ We ought to go to Marmy,” she said at last, with- 
drawing her hands. 

“Will you not give me one word of hope? I will 
wait as long as you please. Only give me the right 
to stand* by you before the world as your affianced 
husband. I know that I could understand you, and 
that I could make you happy. I know that I could 
win your love.” 

“ Does that seem to you so very difficult ? ” she said, 
looking at him with the first gleam of coquetry he had 
ever seen in her eyes. 

He took her hand again in his and kissed it. “ Say 


136 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


that it may be so, Beatrice. Give me the right to guard 
you. Give me the right to prove to you how tenderly 
and passionately I love you.” 

“ No,” she answered seriously, not now. I am g ung 
to tell you exactly how I feel, and you mustn’t think me 
ungrateful or unwomanly. I do value your love. I 
do feel proud of the honour you have done me. Perhaps 
some day, if you would be patient — some day I might be 
able to tell you that I care for you in the way you wish ; 
but now ” — a smile played on her face — Mr. Lendon, 
the truth is that I am devoted heart and soul to some 
one else.” 

“ Some one else ! ” Lendon exclaimed, thrilling with 
doubt and dread. 

“ Yes ; some one worthy of my devotion. I have been 
constantly in his company during the past weeks. I 
have studed his character in many phases. He has his 
faults, but he is greater than his faults ; and I admire 
him in spite of them — nay, because of them. That is how 
one ought to love, is it not, Mr. Lendon ? ” 

“ Beatrice ! it is not like you to play with a man’s 
heart in this way.” 

She smiled again. But I want you to hear all about 
my hero, Bernard. He is a brave, loyal, devoted gentle- 
man. He is very proud, but he is an odd mixture, too, of 
modesty and pride — too modest to speak of love until he 
is told that he may love — but then, when lifted so high, 
brave enough for any woman’s heart— resolute to hold to 


THE GEEAT NIGHT. 


137 


her, to defend her, to fight for her, to die for her, to do 
anything hut give her up ! ” 

She was becoming melodramatic ; Lendon was be- 
coming sullen. 

“Any man would be like that, I suppose,” he said; 
“ any man who cared for a woman — we have all of us 
pluck enough for that.” 

“ Oh, but all men are not like my hero, and my 
champion, and my lover ! ” 

The last word revived him. 

“Come, now,” he said, “I know you are talking 
nonsense when you talk like that. May I hear that 
wonderful hero’s name ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! his name is Antonio.” 

A thrill of relief passed through London’s heart. 

“ Treacherous Antonio,” he said with a smile. “ T intro- 
duced him to you, and he has supplanted me ! Antonio 
is the lover and husband of the Duchess of Malfi.” 

Beatrice smiled a sweet, half-pathetic smile. “Antonio 
must have his day,” she answered. “ But the curtain 
must fall upon him. Then — perhaps ! ” 

* ♦ * * * • 

There was an all pervading thrill of excitement in the 
closely packed rows of seats at the Dionysion on the first 
night of “The Duchess of Malfi.” This was always, 
more or less, the case. A Dionysion first-night was one 
of the events of the year. Seats were taken months 

K 


138 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


beforehand, and the life of Coswaj Keele’s manager was 
made a burden to him, because of the number of applica- 
tions and entreaties from acquaintances who thought they 
had a right to be present on this important occasion. The 
world of London showed itself in miniature — aristocracy, 
art, and letters, sent their representatives. Every face in 
the stalls and boxes was the face of a man or woman known 
and talked about, and not to be at the first night of the 
Dionysion was to proclaim oneself out of the swim, at 
least in Bohemia. 

To-night, the excitement was intensified. Beatrice 
Brett had been much trumpeted, much cried down. The 
members of the profession were jealous of her notoriety, 
furious at what they called her audacity. She had been 
much written about. For weeks the paragraphists had 
been busy gleaning details as to the new production. 
The pessimists declared it to be a mad venture ; the 
optimists maintained that a great actress was going to 
astonish the world. The sick leading lady, who was of 
course too ill to be present, cursed fate in having been 
forced to give an opening to a formidable rival. The 
friends of that same leading lady gathered in somewhat 
gloomy force, prepared to report and condemn. The 
audience was what the newspapers called a more than 
usually brilliant assemblage, but as the house filled there 
were evidences of almost painful tension. Friends looked 
anxious and alert. Critics gathered in knots, after having 
deposited their opera hats, and talked together as gravely 


THE GREAT NIGHT. 




as though the fate of a nation were at stake. The pit 
and gallery were noisy and exuberant. Oosway Keele was 
a favourite. He had never failed them yet, and they 
were prepared to back his judgment now. Every now 
and then, as some recognized celebrity took his seat, a 
cheer would float down from the ranks above. Lendon 
was one of those thus greeted. It was freely announced 
that he was principally responsible for the modernised 
version of Webster’s play, and also for the costumes of 
the performers ; and then, too, thanks to Mrs. Walcot 
Yalbry, rumour already credited him with more than a 
professional interest in the new actress. He himself was 
strung to the extremest pitch of nervousness. Mrs.Walcot 
Yalbry, resplendent in diamonds, bent over the edge of her 
box and nodded and beckoned him to come to her. She 
had one of the large boxes on the ground tier so that it was 
easy for an occupant of the stalls to go to her without any 
troublesome ceremony of knocking at doors. A great many 
of the dramatic critics availed themselves of the privilege, 
and she had the satisfaction of feeling that she was putting 
in a good word for her protegee. As she sat in the corner 
seat facing the house, she bowed till the diamonds on her 
white head twinkled like a rain of dewdrops, and she looked 
like a benign fairy who felt herself more or less responsible 
for the whole occasion, for did not everyone know that 
it was at her house Cosway Keele had first seen the 
American Improvisatrice ? She was not the only attrac- 
tion of the box, which in truth drew towards it many 


140 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


pairs of eyes. Countess Adrian sat looking towards the 
stage, and somewhat shielded by a curtain from general 
observation, but Sir Donald Urquhart, in the centre, was 
fully visible, and it was easy to guess who was the lady 
monopolizing his attention. She, too, bent over and 
smiled and nodded at London, and when he came to 
speak to her, whispered — 

Don’t be uneasy, your Improvisatrice shall not have 
to dread my evil eye to-night — all my influence, all my 
wishes, will spur her on to success.” 

And the overture began, and the play opened, and 
went on, it seemed to Lendon, like the drama of a dream. 
And at last the curtain did fall upon Antonio — or it 
would be more correct to say, upon the Duchess — am.J 
such a tempest of applause as perhaps, in spite of all its 
famous revivals, had never been heard within the walls 
of the Dionysion. 

Needless to say that the play was mounted with all the 
splendour and dramatic effect and strict attention to 
historic detail which could make mediaeval Italy live 
again in modern London ; needless to say that Cosway 
Keele as Bosola, the finished villian, surpassed all his 
previous impersonations, and that a new name was 
written on the list of stage successes. All this was taken 
for granted and melted into comparative insignificance 
before the stupendous impression created by the new 
Duchess of Malfi. Beatrice had verified all her admirers’ 
most sanguine predictions, and in one night had lifted 


THE GREAT NIGHT. 


141 


herself to the rank of the Immortals. Her grace and 
dignity, her exquisite pathos, her womanly passion, and, 
at the last, her sublime and saint-like courage, literally ' 
took the house by storm. There was an audible sob 
through the theatre when, just before her cruel death, 
the Duchess begs that her little children may be cared 
for — 

I pray thee, look thou giv’st my little hoy 
Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl 
Say her prayers ere she sleep.** 

A.nd again, as the strangling cords are round her — 

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength 
Must pull down heaven upon me ; — 

Yet stay, h eaven gates are not so highly arch’d 
As princes* palaces; they that enter there 
Must go upon their knees — Come, violent death. 

Serve for mandragora to make me sleep ! ” 

Lendon felt his whole being torn with wonder and 
emotion, and a strange sweet despair. How could he 
ever hope to win this dazzling creature, whose look, 
and word, and gesture could thrill and hold spell-bound 
a vast assemblage such as this which watched her 
to-night ! And how pure womanly she was ! In very 
soul and essence the type of wife and mother ! There lay 
the secret of her power ! She was almost fainting when 
Cosway Keele brought her forward. Her eye turned to 
the upper box in which Lendon sat beside Mrs. Cubison. 
He felt that they Avere lifted in yearning for sympathy, 


142 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


and, oh ! with what wild passionate love his heart went 
out to her ! Mrs. Oubison hurried down the narrow 
staircase and along the stone passage that led behind. 
The word had gone round that, as usual on first nights, 
Cosway Keele would hold a reception on the stage when 
all was over, and half the occupants of the stalls and 
boxes were crowding round. Lendon held back. It 
would have been agony to him that night to join in the 
commonplace criticisms and the effusive ejaculations of 
wonder and delight. Beatrice’s triumph was to him too 
sacred a thing for this. Mrs. Cubison bade him wait 
while she went into Beatrice’s dressing-room. Presently 
her dresser came out to say that Miss Brett and Mrs. 
Cubison were going straight home and wished Mr. 
Lendon to go with them. 

It was not long before Beatrice herself, leaning shyly 
on Mrs. Cubison’s arm, stole down the passage so closely 
cloaked and hooded as to be scarcely recognizable. At 
the same moment Cosway Keele rushed out through the 
green-room door. 

Miss Brett, we are waiting for you. You will come 
on ? All London is longing to congratulate you.” 

“Not to-night,” she answered. “Indeed, Mr. Keele, 
I cannot. Indeed, I must go home. Tell me that you 
are pleased. That’s all I care about. 

The manager took her two hands in his and pressed 
them warmly. 

“ I have told you already what I think,” he said. 


THE GREAT NIGHT. 


143 


“ You are finer than the finest. God bless you, my dear, 
and thank you. Go home, child,” he added with feeling, 

and sleep sweetly and dream of the glorious future that 
is yours from to-night.” He turned to Mrs. Cubison, 
partly to conceal his emotion ; he, too, was overwrought. 
“ You must have telegrams you want to send ; I have 
arranged at the office. You had. better write them 
here.” 

“ Why, certainly, there must go a cablegram to the 
Professor,” cried Mrs. Cubison, and ran into the green- 
room. Cosway Keele once more clasped Beatrice’s hand. 
The low roar of voices and laughter from the stage 
reached them distinctly. “ I must go to my guests,” he 
said. “We shall see you round, I suppose, presently, 
Lendon ?” 

“ He is coming with me,” said Beatrice, and slipped 
her hand within his arm. 

Cosway Keele gave a quick look at both — a look which 
seemed to take in the situation, and left them. 

They stood in the narrow passage, her hand was on 
his arm, and her sweet face was turned up to his. 

“Beatrice — ^my love,” he whispered wildly. “How 
can I dare ask you to stoop to me — after to-night ? ” 

“ The curtain has fallen,” she said softly. “ Antonio 
has had his day.” 

Not one word more was spoken then. They understood 
each other. Surely for the space of three minutes that 
narrow stone-paved corridor was transformed into 


144 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


Elysium. Scene-shifters and supers and dressers passed 
on their way out into the street, and looked curiously at 
the young heroine of the evening cowering here in the 
half -darkness, when not many paces distant champagne 
corks were popping and glasses were passing, and some 
hundreds of the best-known people in London were cele- 
brating her triumph. Mrs. Cubison came back having 
written and dispatched a little sheaf of telegrams, and 
Lendon went to find the brougham and put them into it 
and took his seat beside them. It was so strange driving 
through the streets after all that had happened on that 
wondrous evening. Beatrice leaned back like a broken 
lily ; but her eyes glowed soft and bright as stars. She 
did not speak. Fortunately for Lendon, Mrs. Cubison 
rattled on, delivering a paean of joy and thanksgiving. 
The little house was all astir, and supper was laid in the 
dining-room. Mrs. Cubison, intent on some domestic 
arrangement, preceded them thither. She wanted to be 
certain that the champagne had been iced. Lendon 
drew Beatrice into her own little study where they had 
sat so often together. 

She threw off her cloak and stood before him, her 
face very pale and tremulous, with a strange, sweet, 
inviting smile on her lips, and her golden hair shining 
round her. 

“ Beatrice— my darling ! ” Lendon cried ; and he 
would have taken her in his arms then and there ; but 
something in her clear, pure eyes, in her strange bright 


THE GEEAT NIGHT. 


145 


smile, that was so sweet aud yet so cold, something in 
her statuesque attitude rebuked his lover’s ardour. He 
let his hands fall upon her dress, hut attempted no closer 
embrace ; then he lifted her cloak and then laid it down, 
and wheeled forward a chair to the fire. 

‘‘Sit down,” he said gently, “you must be very cold 
and very tired.” 

“I am not cold,” she answered, “and I am too 
happy to be tired. I never was so happy in all my 
life.” 

“ Are you lonely, Beatrice, as you feared .? ” he 
said. 

“No,” she answered. “I am not lonely. You are 
sharing my joy with me.” 

He knelt on the ground beside her, and took her hand 
and kissed it. 

“ Beatrice, did you mean what you said in the theatre ? 
Has Antonio had his day, and is it my turn now ? Oh ! 
my love, be true and frank. Don’t keep me in suspense. 
I love you with my whole heart and soul. Tell me that 
you will be my wife.” 

“ If you will take me, Bernard,” she answered ; “ I will 
try to be a true and loving wife ; and I know that you 
will be good to me. You won’t expect too much from 
me, dear. I want you to be very gentle ; I want you to 
be very patient.” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her with tender- 
ness, but with no passion. It was not passion that she 


146 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


needed from him, hut protecting love. He had felt this 
from the first. 

When they went out to the lighted supper-room, 
Beatrice shyly took Bernard’s hand and led him to Mrs. 
Cuhison. “ Marmy,” she said, “ I have promised to be 
Mr. Lendon’s wife.” 


MBS. WALCOT VALBRY’S BALL. 


147 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s Ball. 

Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s balls were always amusing 
functions, and one that she gave in the July following 
the revival of the Duchess of Malfi. was more than 
usually crowded and more than usually talked about. 

In jthe first place she had a large detached house which 
had once belonged to a famous Academician, and where 
the studio, built out beyond the reception-rooms, made an 
ideal ball-room — it was used as the supper-room at her 
ordinary “ At Homes.” Indeed, secondly, Mrs. Walcot 
Yalbry had a reputation lor suppers. Her champagne was 
beyond praise, and her guests were not obliged to file 
down in relays to a long, narrow board and a sort of 
table d'hote collation, at which people ate in fear of their 
neighbours’ elbows. They were provided with a number of 
small tables, with special waiters for each, and abundance 
of room in which to take a leisurely repast, and to feast 
their minds as well as their bodies with sallies of wit and 
genial conversation. Then, too, she was a kind of 
purveyor of American beauty, and more than one lovely 
lady celebrated in higher circles had made her d^but in 
London society under Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s wing. More- 


148 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


over, everyone knew that she went in for stars of the 
theatrical profession, and everyone remembered the 
performance of the Improvisatrice that spring— much 
quoted since the Dionysion revival — and everyone took 
it for granted that the Duchess of Malfi — as they called 
Beatrice — would be present. 

For the Duchess of Malfi was the rage, and when 
London sets up an idol she certainly does not stint her 
incense. Beatrice’s photographs were everywhere — in 
shop windows and on drawing-room tables. Certain 
great ladies dropped cards of invitation at the little house 
in Regent’s Park, and certain distinguished gentlemen 
made requests for her presence at their supper-parties. 
Newspaper people interviewed her, painters begged for 
permission to take her portrait ; she was pestered with 
entreaties to hold stalls at fancy fairs, and to assist at 
charitable entertainments. The lesser crowd of lion- 
hunters besieged her, and love-letters from the mashers 
of the stalls rained upon her. Mrs. Cubison’s position 
as sheep-dog was just now no sinecure. 

Th(5 play at the Dionysion was never over till past 
eleven, and Lendon knew that Beatrice could not arrive 
at Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s till long after the dancing had 
begun. He was at the theatre as usual; indeed he 
had made himself rather conspicuous by his constant 
attendance, which was hardly now to be excused on the 
plea of his part in the revival. Again he had delighted 
eyes and heart, and had followed line by line, mood by 


MRS. WALCOT VALBRY’S BALL. 


149 


mood, the exhibition of that rare and spiritual passion, 
that absolute self-surrender of the actress to her ecstasy 
of love which yet seemed all a madness of soul with no 
part of sense. It was to him a foretaste of almost 
unrealizable bliss to watch this beautiful creature as she 
thrilled with the emotion of her part, and to know that 
he alone had a lover’s right to the exquisite Ups, that for 
his own secret delight were reserved all those graces of 
womanhood, and that for his ear was destined love-talk 
tenderly intimate and heavenly sweet as, in those short 
days of wedded bUss, the ill-fated Duchess whispered in 
the ears of Antonio. 

Strangely enough, he had never during the love-scenes 
— some of them emotional and impassioned enough, 
between the Duchess and Antonio — felt any thrill of 
jealousy on account of the smoothly locutionary lover. 

To-night it seemed to him that Beatrice was finer than 
usual. The interest had risen to enthusiasm. Stalls and 
boxes were full, and the pit and galleries were densely 
packed. The curtain was raised several times at the end 
of each act ; and at the close of the performance the calls 
and shouts of “ Brava ! ” were deafening, till Beatrice 
appeared once more before the curtain, and, pale and 
overwrought, bowed her acknowledgments of the applause. 
Lendon went round to the stage entrance and waited till 
the actress came out. He was in the habit of seeing her 
and Mrs. Cubison, who usually accompanied her, into their 
brougham ; but he had never, since the first night of 


150 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


“ The Duchess,” gone behind the scenes. The manage- 
ment at the Dionysion was despotic, and not even to the 
leading lady might note or message be conveyed till her 
part for the evening was over. To-night Beatrice came 
out alone. Mrs. Cubison, she explained afterwards, had 
a headache and was resting in preparation for her labours 
of chaperone at the ball later on. The girl looked white 
and weary, and he fancied a little distraught, as though 
the emotion of those harrowing scenes was still racking 
her. She gave him to hold, as was her custom, the little 
bag in which nightly she carried home the jewels she had 
worn, and put her hand through his arm with an air of 
gladness and relief. 

Oh, Bernard,” she whispered, it was nice of you to 
come round. I wanteci you to-night.” 

“ Why to-night ? ” he asked anxiously. “ Darling, are 
you ill ? ” 

“ No, not ill. But I have a strange feeling — I have 
had it all day — a feeling of sadness and dread, a sort of 
presentiment of coming evil. Don’t laugh at me, 
Bernard. You know I am not made of the same sort of 
stuff as your practical matter-of-fact people. I believe in 
these things.” 

“ Indeed, I am too anxious and unhappy about you to 
feel inclined to smile at your presentiments,” he said. 

“ Did you not see to-night how real it all was ? ” she 
went on. “ I was not acting. I was not the Duchess of 
Malfi. I was Beatrice Brett parting for ever from the 


MRS. WALCOT VALBRY’S BALL. 


151 


man she loves. Bernard ” — and as they stood outside 
the little paved lane she clung to him almost wildly — 
“ something is going to part us. I know it ; I feel it. 
Oh ! fight against it. Don’t let it happen. Keep me 
safe.” 

“My dearest,” he said gravely, his voice trembling 
with emotion, “nothing shall part us on this side of the 
grave — ^nothing, except your own will, Beatrice. Don’t 
be frightened, dear. See, you are trembling with nervous- 
ness and exhaustion. That play takes too much out of 
you. If you w^eren’t overdone, you couldn’t have fancies 
like this.” 

“ Ever since I was a child 1 have had fancies, as you 
call them. I have always had a foreshadowing presenti- 
ment before any great event in my life. Something will 
happen to me soon, and it will not be for good. But 
I’m not going to give way to morbidness, Bernard. I 
shall go home now and dress for my ball, and try to put 
dark thoughts aside.” 

He put her into the carriage and let her take the bag 
with her trinkets from him. Then, instead of closing the 
door, he got in after her. 

“ No, no,” she exclaimed, “ I have alarmed you quite 
needlessly. I assure you I am perfectly well.” 

His only answer was to take her in his arms and kiss 
her passionately. He rarely allowed his love for her to 
have its full vent. . Perhaps it was something impersonal 
and cold in her which checked its overflow. She never 


152 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


seemed to him so much an ordinary woman as an ideal 
to be reverenced. But to-night he could not restrain 
himself, and she yielded herself wiDh a little sigh of 
content to his embrace. They scarcely spoke ; but she 
let her head rest upon his shoulder, and his arm was 
round her, and his lips brushed her hair as he 
rapturously pictured to himself the time when she would 
be all his own. They drove quickly on. He had never 
driven with her alone so at night before. The lights of 
the hansoms flashing by, the clusters of lamps, the in- 
toxication of the caress — all seemed part of some won- 
derful dream. The carriage stopped at last. She raised 
herself with a little laugh. 

“ Now you must get into a hansom and drive quickly 
to Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s, and tell her that as soon as I 
am dressed I am coming along.” 

Deares*-,” he said, are you well enough for a ball 
to-night ?” 

“ Why, Mrs. Walcot Valbry would be just mad if I 
disappointed her, and all her grand people who want to 
stare at the poor little American actress ! I had a frantic 
note from her this morning, begging me not to be late. 
And, besides, I have never danced with you, Bernard ; 
and I’m so fond of dancing, and we are going to waltz 
together to-night.” 

She jumped from the carriage while she spoke, waving 
him back as she ran along the paved causeway to the 
house. Quick,” she cried, tell them I am coming,” 


MRS. WALCOT VALBRY’s BALL. 


153 


and disappeared within the hall-door which Mrs. Cubison, 
on the watch, threw open. 

Lendon remembered, as he drove along, that Countess 
Adrian had that morning laughingly engaged him to 
dance the first waltz after midnight. She had insisted 
upon his coming up to her, no matter with whom she 
might be talking, exactly as the clock struck. “ It wiU 
be the first time that I shall have danced,” she said, 
“ for five years.” 

Why is that ? ” he asked. 

“ Because the doctor, who found out that my heart 
was affected, told me to avoid any violent exercise or 
excitement. That was in the days of the whirling deux 
iemps^'' she added with a laugh ; ^‘but you and I to-night 
will dance a slow and graceful measure to celebrate the 
completion of the portrait, and the happy course of our 
friendship.” 

KemorsefuUy he reflected now that midnight was 
passed. 

She was the first person who greeted him after he had 
paid his respects and delivered Beatrice’s message to 
Mrs. Walcot Yalbry. She was coming towards him on 
Sir Donald Urquhart’s arm, which she relinquished as he 
approached. “ You are too late,” she said. 

Countess, a thousand apologies. The fact is that ” 

She stopped him with a gesture, at the same moment 
taking his arm, and dismissing Sir Donald with a smile 
and a nod. Don’t tell me that you forgot me. That 

L 


154 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


would be a sore wound to my vanity, and I am in the 
mood to enjoy myself to-night.” 

‘‘ Forgive me, Countess. I was unavoidably detained 
by the illness — of a friend.” 

“ A friend ! ” she repeated. 

“They are playing another waltz now,” he rejoined 
hastily, as the band broke into a prelude that he knew. 
“Will you give it to me instead ? ” 

“ No, we will not dance this one,” she answered. “I am 
tired. I want to talk. Take me to the conservatory, 
and let us wait there for the next waltz.” 

They threaded their way through the long room. 
The dream-like feeling was upon him still. The reflection 
of the electric lights on the parquet floor reminded him 
of the lamps shining on the asphalte as he had driven 
with Beatrice from the theatre, and the thrill of Beatrice’s 
touch stirred him yet. 

Strange how a mood inspired by one woman reacts 
again upon another woman ! It was as though Countess 
Adrian were touched with something of the same 
dream-like magic. It seemed to him that her voice had 
a note of ineffable tenderness, as she said— 

“I have so looked forward to to-night, since we parted.” 

“This morning. Countess Lendon answered. 

“ Yes, only this morning ; but does not one sometimes 
live years in a day ? I have sat alone — alone, thinking, 
dreaming, wondering, during the hours that have passed 
since I left you.” 


MRS. WALOOT VALBRY’s BALL. 


155 


“ Has anything happened — tell me — in those hours 

“Nothing, my friend, except perhaps the end of a 
friendship.’’ 

“ You speak of our friendship ? ” he said eagerly. 

She bowed her head. 

“ Surely,” he added, “ that need not end because the 
portrait is finished ? ” 

“I think it will,” she answered. “There are more 
ways than one of ending a friendship. Are you sorry 
the portrait is finished ? ” she asked suddenly. 

“ Yes,” he answered unhesitatingly. There was in his 
mind no shadow of falsity to Beatrice. If some faint doubt 
of Countess Adrian’s feeling for himself had ever glanced 
across it, he had dismissed the fancy with a smile at his 
own vanity. Remembering what she had told him, 
taking her at her own showing as a trusty comrade — a 
woman in need of friends and not finding them readily 
among her own sex, believing that she was world- worn, 
satiated with admiration, hard to please, with indeed a 
heart that could only be roused by some glittering prince 
of romance who would appeal to that element of the 
dramatic, the luxurious, and the splendid which formed 
so large a part of her nature, it would have appeared to 
him absolutely impossible that she could fall seriously in 
love with a work-a day artist in prosaic London, who 
professed nothing more for her than friendship. He 
liked her ; she interested him intensely, speaking in the 
abstract, in her way, perhaps, quite as much as Beatrice. 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


lot) 


He delighted in her beauty, her curious grace, the charm 
of her conversation, and the frank audacity with which 
she laid herself bare before him. But love ! That 
belonged to a secret inner chamber of which Countess 
Adrian could never possess the key. 

“ I have had a pleasant task. Countess,” he went on. 

To watch you, to paint you would have been almost 
pleasure enough to an artist ; but when the charm of 
hearing you talk is added, and the privilege of being 
admitted to a certain extent into your confidence, why 
then the artist is a favoured mortal, indeed.” 

“We won’t talk the language of compliments to-night,” 
she said, with a melancholy that deeply touched him ; 
“ I have had too much of that ; I should like something 
different from you.” 

“ If mine is the language of compliment, at least you 
will believe it is sincere,” he said. 

They were standing in the conservatory which was a 
fairy-land of palms and blossom, cushioned lounges and 
pale electric stars. At the furthest end was an archway 
draped with Moorish curtains. “Have you seen Mrs. 
Walcot Yalbry’s Eastern room ? ” she asked. “ Come ; 
we shall be quiet there.” She drew aside the curtains 
which fell behind them as they passed through. They 
found themselves in a wonderful “ Liberty ” apartment — 
draperies, divans, canopied ceiling, soft shaded lamps of 
quaint designs, idols, and orchids, the whole pervaded by 
a delicate Oriental perfume — a “ flirtation corner ” which 


MRS. WALCOT VALBRY’S BALL. 


157 


did not appear as yet to have attracted the attention of 
Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s guests. Countess Adrian sank 
upon a divan. “ Sit here,” she said. 

Lendon did not at once comply with the invitation, 
but stood looking at her, his artist eye taking in and 
enjoying the beauty of the picture she presented. ‘‘I 
wish,” he said, “ that I seen you before in that dress. I 
should have liked to paint you in it.” 

The soft amber stuff, with its shining embroidery, was 
certainly well suited to her clear ivory skin and dark eyes 
and hair, and was made in a fashion that showed to 
peculiar advantge the magnificent lines of her throat 
and bust. Her arms were bare to the shoulders and 
clasped with barbaric looking armlets of gold set with 
uncut stones. Her breast heaved beneath its transparent 
drapery, as if with some pent emotion. Her lips 
parted in a dreamy smile ; the expression of her eyes as 
they gazed into his was indescribably alluring, and the 
dark brown shade beneath the lower lid enhanced their 
penetrating lustre. There was about her a conscious 
witchery and abandon which, in spite of himself, in spite 
of the image enshrined in his heart, set his blood coursing 
faster. She might indeed at that moment have postured 
as the embodiment of sensuous charm. 

Tell me ” she began, still looking at him with 

that curious intentness, then stopped. 

He seated himself beside her. ‘‘ What is it that you 
wish me to tell you ? ” 


158 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADKIAN. 


“ No ! ” she answered. I will tell you something. 
Do you remember what I once said to you about my 
superstition in regard to this year ? ” 

“ Perfectly,” he replied. 

‘‘The astrologer, who foretold that this year would be 
fateful to me, fixed the very time at which the crisis 
would take place. That time is now.” 

“ Now ! ” he repeated, startled. 

“ Yes, now / The first and second hours of the morn- 
ing. These are the hours which will decide my destiny. 
That is why I begged you to come to me when midnight 
struck. I wanted to see your face — to feel that you were 
near me. 1 wanted you to share the ordeal with me.” 
She laid her ungloved hand softly upon his. It was dry 
and hot, and he felt the fingers quivering as they touched 
his flesh. 

“ Countess, what do you mean ? ” 

“ Do you think I am working up a melodramatic effect 
for your especial amusement? Ah! I assure you that 
I am too serious to be melodramatic. My whole life is at 
stake, and I am tortured by anxiety — hope — doubt — 
dread. I watched for you. I waited. You were late. 
The clock struck. You did not come. It was an ill 
portent.” 

“ Countess Adrian, you bewilder me. This is a modern 
London baU ; and you and I were engaged to dance a 
waltz together. Surely, the days of astrologers and magic 
and portents are passed ; and my experience of destiny 


MES. WALCOT VALBRY’S BALL. 


159 


is^ that she works in common-place fashion and does no^t 
usaally prepare so elaborate a mibe-m-scme, when she 
deals out her crushing calamities, or her most precious 
benefits.” 

“ You are right. Destiny is a poor stage-manager as 
a rule, and for to-night I would have chosen a different 
mise-en-scene. But destiny only knows whether the 
curtain is to fall on a tragedy, or on wedding bells — and 
perhaps for either, a ball-room is the most appropriate 
background.” 

“ Tell me. Countess, since we are friends — what 
is it that you hope for ? What is it that you 
dread ?” 

“ Shall I tell you — Bernard ? ” She lingered with 
musical cadence on his name ; it was the first time she 
had ever called him by it. “ I said to you the second 
time we met, that everything had happened to me — 
everything — except death and love. Suppose that the 
one supreme experience for which I have longed, and that 
yet has filled me with terror, has come to me at last — 
slowly, silently, overpoweringly. Suppose that for the 
first time in my life 1 love.” 

To suppose that. Countess,” he said, with a forced 
lightness that seemed to him at the moment a mockery 
of himself, “ is to suppose that at least there is one happy 
man in the world.” 

You think,” she said slowly, that I could make any 
man love me ? ” 


160 


THU SOUL OP COtJNTESS ADKIAH. 


“Would he not be curiously iosensible if you could 
not touch his heart ? ” 

“ But if,” she said, “ if the man whom I love had once 
been sorely wounded by a woman’s treachery, and had 
hardened himself against all other women — if he were of 
a self-contained nature, slow to believe that he could 
inspii’e love ” 

“ Surely in that case only time and opportunity are 
needed. Love has a way of breaking down such barriers.” 

“But if he had been given an opportunity — if all 
that a woman could say had been said, and if he had 
never by word or look conveyed that he cared for her 
in any way other than as a friend ” 

She broke o(f agitatedly ; but she had said too much. 
Her full meaning flashed upon him. He gave a startled 
exclamation, and drew slightly back. Her throbbing 
fingers tightened on his hand. She bent over towards 
him, her head thrown back, her breath coming quickly, 
her glowing eyes burning upon his, every pulse in her 
quivering with emotion. 

“ Would he be strong enough — cruel enough to repulse 
such a woman as I am, Bernard?” she went on in low 
tremulous terms— “ if for his sake she, this woman, were 
to cast away her womanly pride — she to whom so many 
have poured out love, and who has accepted it so dis- 
dainfully— if she were to say to him with all the fulness 
of her soul, ‘ I love you. Take me. Do with me what 
you will. Make me your slave only love me.* ” 


MBS. WALCOT VALBBY’S BALL. 


161 


“ And if that were impossible,” Bernard answered, no 
less agitated than she herself. If, while admiring her 
above all women, valuing her friendship, honouring he" 
for her noble frankness, he were yet unable to give back 
the love she offered him, and which under other con- 
ditions would have made his happiness — if this were so 
— because his heart had been given before he knew her, 

and another woman claimed all his devotion ” 

She interrupted him with a little inarticulate cry ; but 
only the more closely did she cling to him. “ Love me, 
Bernard,” she murmured, and all the passion of her 
being seemed concentrated in the appeal. “ Love me. 
Let the other woman go. She does not love you as 1 
love you. She cannot charm you as I would charm you. 
She cannot give you what I could give you.” As 
Countess Adrian spoke she raised herself closer to him. 
Her arm stole round his neck, her palpitating form 
pressed against his, and her lips met his in an im- 
passioned kiss. Thus for a moment they remained 
locked in each other’s embrace. For that moment he 
was like a man giddy and overcome by some subtle 
magnetism, which enervated his will and robbed him of 
all power of resistance. For a moment he gave himself 
up to the intoxication of the contact — of her perfumed 
breath, of her warm soft lips. He would have been more 
than man had he kept his senses. Agnes,” he whispered, 
as he strained her closer. Then with a sudden shock of 
revulsion came the thought of Beatrice and of her 


162 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


pure love. It steeled him and gave him new strength. 
He rose from the divan and put Agnes gently from 
him. She seemed instinctively to realise that his mood 
had changed ; her arms relaxed and the flame in her sank. 

“ Agnes,” he said, forgive me this moment of mad- 
ness. Let us forget it. Let us keep our friendship. I 
could not bear to forfeit that.” 

“ You ! ” she cried wildly. What have you done ? 
I offered you my love, it is I who am shamed.” 

‘‘ There is no shame in love.” He bent his head and 
with great respect kissed her hand. I am not worthy 
that you should do me this honour. Six months ago I 
could have loved you with all the ardour that you could 
wish. Yes, there’s no treason to her in saying that. 
But now, it is she who has all my heart, and this is 
impossible.” 

Countess Adrian moved away from him as he spoke. 
She drew a deep long breath like the moan of a wounded 
animal. The sound cut his very heart. All the glow 
and transport had gone from her face, leaving an ashy 
pallor and strange stillness. She stood for a second or 
two perfectly silent, her hand pressed against her side as 
if she were suffering. Presently she said, in a voice that 
had utterly changed, . 

“ It is all over then — I want to know— who is it that 
you love ? ” 

“ I am engaged to marry Miss Beatrice Brett,” he 
answered. 


MRS. WALCOT VALBRY’s BALL. 


163 


The actress ! I might have known that.” Again 
she paused. “Mr. London, you are right. This has 
been a moment of madness, and there is nothing 
for us but to try and forget it. Spare me now, and 
do not let word or look in the future remind me of 
my humiliation.” 

“Ah ! do not misjudge me. Should I not value you 
more and not less for this ? Surely, you and I can stand 
— soul to soul — outside conventions.” 

“That was the agreement we made,” she said, with a 
wan smile. “ Very well, let it be so. You are great 
enough for a woman to be safe with you. But — it is 
not so certain that I can be safe with myself. After 
to-night I shall never willingly see you again. But I 
shall not misjudge you, and I shall wish you happiness. 
Come, let us go into the ball-room.” 

He led her out in silence. The waltz was still going on. 
As they stood at the entrance of the conservatory he saw 
Beatrice enter. She was all in white, flushed and radiant, 
with a bouquet of lilies in her hand. So beautiful was 
she, so pure, and so ethereal, that her presence, following 
on that strange scene, seemed to him like that of some 
rebuking heavenly visitant. She recognized him and 
smiled. Countess Adrian also was watching her. Again 
he heard that low curious moan and looked at her in 
alarm. Her deathly paleness struck him. He saw that 
she was commanding all the force of her will to sustain 
her strength. . 


164 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS AHEIAN. 


‘‘Countess,” he exclaimed, pierced with remorse, “you 
are not well.” 

She looked up bravely. “ I am quite well — ^well enough 
to keep our engagement. This waltz is mine, remember. 
We will dance — for the first and last time.” 

He put his arm around her, and they glided out among 
the dancers. Presently the waltz changed its strain. 
It had been a plaintive and dreamy air. Now it clashed 
out in wild, fast rhythm that had something uncanny in 
its discords. His partner’s form undulated with the 
music. Tall and magnificently framed as she was, so 
lightly did she dance, so entirely was her every movement 
in harmony with the measure, so rapid was the gliding 
pace she kept, that it seemed to him as though he were 
guiding a being possessed. Three mad whirls they made, 
then there was a rush, a shrieking of the vioHns, a long- 
drawn closing chord, and the waltz was at an end. 

They paused at the spot where Beatrice was standing. 
She was leaning against a crimson-draped pillar, fanning 
herself slowly, and talking to Sir Donald Urquhart, who 
was by her side. The two women faced each other. At 
the sight of Countess Adrian, the light went out of 
Beatrice’s eyes. The motion of. her fan ceased. She 
shrank back a little and cast a look at Lendon as if im- 
ploring his support. The Countess took her hand away 
from his arm, and he moved a step, ranging himself, as it 
were, on the side of the woman he loved. Countess Adrian 
advanced. “ Miss Brett,” she said, “ I am Mr. Lendon’s 


MRS. WALCOT VALBRY’S BALL. 


165 


friend. Will you let me offer my congratulations to his 
future wife ? ’’ Lendon watched Beatrice’s face. He saw 
the same dazed expression creep over it as upon that 
occasion when her performance had been interrupted by 
Countess Adrian’s malign influence. The fan dropped from 
her hand. With an effort she appeared to try and brace 
herself, staggering a little as she moved forward. She 
looked wildly around, and half extended her hand, then her 
limbs drooped flaccidly again. She tottered against the 
pillar, and every drop of blood seemed to leave her cheeks. 
The Countess took her hand and stood tall and erect 
before the shrinking girl. Her bosom dilated as if she 
were drawing in strength. For a moment she did not 
speak. It was a strange scene. Lendon felt his heart 
throb with fear and suspense. He looked from Beatrice 
to Countess Adrian. Never had he seen so sudden and 
curious a change in the face of any human being. It 
was like the contrast between dead grey ashes and living 
fire. The impression she gave him was one of demoniac 
power. Her eyes glowed with an unearthly lustre from 
her white face, Her features were rigid, her frame 
tense as though she were concentrating all her force in 
one superhuman effort of will. It only lasted for a second, 
and Beatrice’s eyes, large, blank, cowed, were drawn as 
by a magnet into that terrible compelling gaze. The 
girl trembled and yet looked fascinated, like a helpless 
victim before the snake makes its fatal spring. Countess 
Adrian went nearer. She spoke with a low, intense 


166 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


utterance words that burned like fire into London’s 
heart. 

“ You are going to be his wife/’ she said. To you 
is given all that has been denied to me. I will give you 
more and yet more. I will give you the desire with 
which I have desired him, the yearning, the doubt, the 
agony with which I have striven for his love. I will 
give you the passion with which he has filled my heart, 
to be my torment and my heaven. I will give you of 
my strength and of my life. I will give you of my spirit 
and of my sense, till my soul itself shall live in you, and 
in loving you he shall love me whom he has scorned. 
This shall be my bridal gift to you, and with my kiss I 
seal it.” 

The red ripe lips of Countess Adrian bent down to 
Beatrice’s lips and clung to them in a vampire kiss which 
seemed to drain the very life-breath from the girl’s bodv. 
She uttered no sound, but as Countess Adrian moved 
from her she sank white and limp into London’s arms. 
Countess Adrian stood for a moment, rigid, and with 
staring glassy eyes. Then, with a sudden piercing cry, 
she pressed her hands to her heart, her body swayed, 
and she fell dead upon the floor. 


TI£B AVATAK. 


167 


CHAPTER X. 

The Avatar. 

On the next morning all London rang with the tragic 
event which had taken place at Mrs. Walcot Yalbry’s ball. 

Countess Adrian was dead. The caase of her death 
was clear enough. Her doctors knew that she had been 
long suffering from heart disease, and they had warned 
her that any violent exertion must prove fatal. She had 
danced a waltz, and a few minutes afterwards her heart had 
ceased to beat. This was what science declared. Science 
was more puzzled by the simultaneous and prolonged 
fainting-fit of the young American actress who was the 
last person to whom Countess Adrian had spoken. 
Countess Adrian had drawn her last breath in the giving 
of that kiss of fate ; and Beatrice Brett, stricken by the 
horror of the shock, had lain unconscious ever since the 
dead woman’s lips touched hers. 

They took the girl home and laid her upon her bed. 
All night and all the next day Lendon watched below. 
Every effort to re-^tore her proved unavailing. Doctors 
came and went. Mrs. Cubison wept and bemoaned 
Professor’s Yiall’s absence. Cosway Keele drove down 
in an agony of anxiety. Newspaper people called to get 


1C8 


THE SOUL OF COUNTERS ADRIAH. 


the latest intelligence for the evening papers. The 
Duchess of Malfi’s mysterious swoon was the talk of the 
hour. The next day, the tragedy of Countess Adrian, as 
one of the papers had it, in sensational type, had become 
a secondary affair. London could do without Countess 
Adrian, but it could not calmly contemplate the loss of 
its Duchess of Malfi. Placards were posted at the 
theatre. Hurried rehearsals were called, and Beatrice’s 
understudy stepped into prominence and exulted in secret 
over the calamity which had given her her great oppor- 
tunity. The doctors agreed that the long trance was 
cataleptic, and that nothing could be done but to watch 
and wait. The two women lay, each cold and motionless, 
the living, to all outward semblance, as lifeless as the 
dead. But there were no wreaths and crosses round 
Beatrice’s still body, and the summer sun threw gleams 
through the half-drawn blinds, while Countess Adrian 
rested in state in a darkened chamber, with watchers and 
tapers at her head and feet, and the room was heavy 
with the scent of funeral flowers. She was very lonely 
in her death. Ho one cared much— except, indeed, Sir 
Donald Urquhart. She had no relations. She had very 
few friends. She had had many lovers, but only one 
was faithful to her at the last. The wreaths which 
heaped her bier were sent by acquaintances who shed 
not one tear because she was dead. Lendon brought a 
cluster of white roses with faint pink hearts and laid 
them himself between the cold hands. 


THE AVATAR. 


169 


From Queen Anne’s Mansions he went to the house 
in Eegent’s Park. It was now the third day since 
Beatrice’s strange seizure. As Mrs. Cubison came to- 
wards him, he asked, hoarsely : “ Is there any change ? ” 
She has moved,” answered Mrs. Cubison ; “ her eyes 
look natural again. It’s Inskip’s doing. The Professor 
telegraphed us to send for Inskip. He is a professional 
magnetizer, you know. I tried him once for neuralgia, 
but being a positive myself and he being another positive, 
nothing came of it. He’s not like the Professor — quite 
a common man and on a different plane altogether ; 
but he has done Beaty good.” 

“ And what does he think is the cause of her illness ? ” 
asked Lendon, anxiously. 

“Oh I he doesn’t know — ^they none of them do. 
There’s no knowing how influences will affect a person 
that’s subject to them,” said Mrs. Cubison, vaguely ; “ and 
for my part I’m only thankful that Beaty doesn’t take 
them in the same way as her mother. Inskip says that 
she’ll soon be right again.” 

The relief was inexpressible. Lendon could almost have 
wept tears of joy. Mrs. Cubison sent him away. Inskip 
and the doctors had agreed that sleep was the best 
restorer, and she wanted to keep the house as quiet as 
possible. She promised to telegraph, and told him that 
he might come back in the evening. He went to his 
studio and occupied himself feverishly during the intervals 
of the hourly bulletins which announced Beatrice’s progress. 

M 


170 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


The portrait of Countess Adrian, glowing with beauty and 
with all the appearance of inextinguishable life, stood in 
mockery upon its easel, and oppressed him like a living 
presence. He removed the canvas and turned it with its 
face to the wall. The place seemed steeped in associations 
of the dead woman. He wandered up and down the 
studio. The telegrams came regularly. Beatrice breathed 
naturally. She had recognized her Aunt. The last 
bulletin told that she was sleeping a sweet healthful 
sleep. 

The summer dusk crept up. The room was full of 
shadows. He could almost fancy, as he leaned back in 
^ his chair, that Countess Adrian’s ghost was sitting in the 
place where she had been accustomed to sit, or was stand- 
ing on the gallery steps as she had stood and looked down 
on him that day that she had questioned him so abruptly 
about Beatrice. The yellow-covered French novel — 
“ The Avatar ” — reminded him afresh of her. He tried to 
shake off the memory and walked to the window and gazed 
out into the twilight. As he stood, an awesome eerie 
feeling came over him. Suddenly he became conscious of 
another presence. Some one was standing beside him. 
He knew that it was Beatrice. He seemed to feel her soft 
breathing. He recognized a faint familiar perfume. He 
gazed— there was nothing ; and yet she was there. 
“Beatrice,” he whispered ; and a voice answered in low 
mysterious tones, thrilling with tenderness, “ Bernard.” 
Then the presence melted, and though he saw no vanish- 


THE AVATAR. 


171 


ing vision, heard no parting sound, he knew that she was 
gone. 

He remained for some moments transfixed, dazed, the 
one thought only possessing him. She was dead, and 
her spirit had come to bid him farewell. He ran out 
into the street, hailed a hansom, and bade the driver go 
with all possible speed to Eegent’s Park. Lights were 
moving in the windows. The sight confirmed his despair. 
There was no motive now for keeping stillness. The 
doctor’s brougham was before the house. As Lendon 
rushed to the door it was opened from within ; the doctor 
came out. London’s lips could scarcely frame the 
enquiry. The physician was a friend of his and guessed 
the state of affairs. 

‘‘Don’t distress yourself, Lendon,” he said kindly. “ She 
will do well enough now. Magnetism — charlatanism, one 
might say — ^has succeeded where our science was help- 
less. The passes threw her into a natural sleep of three 
hours. She has awakened and seems herself again. In a 
night or two we shall have our Duchess of Malfi on the 
boards once more. Let me have a form, by the way, and 
I’ll telegraph to let Cosway Keele know the good news.” 

“ She is not dead ? ” cried Lendon, confused by the 
sudden revulsion. 

“Not dead! I should think not. She has spoken ; she 
has eaten. In a few days, perhaps, you may see her. 
For the present, I have ordered absolute quiet. I am 
afraid of her asking questions about Countess Adrian and 


172 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


reviving that terrible impression. What an extraordinary * 
thing that was ! Poor woman ! She had such an intense 
terror of death.” 

Lendon shuddered as he remembered her passionate 
cry, “ Give me life ; oh, long life.” 

“ And what a magnificent woman ! ” the doctor went 
on. “ It is almost impossible to imagine so brilliant* 
a flame could be put out in an instant — for ever. Has it"* 
ever occurred to you, Lendon, that the one great force on 
which the very world depends — that of human existence 
— falsifies all the laws of science and vanishes, leaving no 
trace ? ” 

Don’t you believe in the soul, doctor ? ” 

“ The soul ! ” Doctor Sheriff* — so he was called — 
shrugged his shoulders. “ I believe in the vital principle ; 
and I want to know into what sort of ethereal gas it is 
transmuted. Does it exhaust itself in the atmosphere ? 
Does it enrich another organization, or does it simply go 
out ? ” 

Ah,” said Lendon, we want Maddox Challis to tell 
us that.” 

The doctor shrugged his shoulders again. Are you 
one of his disciples ? Did you see in the paper yesterday 
that he had left Damascus, and was gone to his hermit’s 
cave in the mountains ? On second thoughts. I’ll call round 
by Cosway Keele’s rooms, they are in my way. Good by.” 
And the doctor stepped into his brougham and drove off. 


THE AVATAE. 


173 


It was the day after Countess Adrian’s funeral, and 
Lendon, with heart beating like that of the most timid 
undeclared lover, stood for the first time since her illness 
on the threshold of Beatrice’s sitting-room. 

He had expected some change in her. He had expected 
to find her with wasted body, and nerves strained by the 
illness and the shock she had undergone. He had 
expected her to be shy and silent, and to shrink perhaps 
a little from his too frank ebullition of feeling. He liad 
pictured her as even more reticent, more virginal, than 
was her wont. He had determined that no demonstration 
on his part should jar or frighten her. He had imagined 
her submitting at first a little constrainedly to his 
caresses, and then gradually gaining confidence and 
satisfaction in them from their very gentleness, and at 
last yielding herself sweetly to his embrace, and resting 
contentedly in his arms like a fluttering bird in its 
mother’s nest. 

But the Beatrice who met him was not the Beatrice 
of his imaginings. He could not, at the first glance, tell 
wherein lay the subtle change, and yet from the first 
glance he was conscious of it. She was not resting on 
her sofa beneath the window, with her books around her, 
as he had been accustomed to see her. She was pacing 
the little room restlessly ; her cheeks were flushed ; there 
was an alertness in her air and gestures, and a feverish 
expectancy in her eyes, which seemed at once brighter, 
more dreamy, and less limpidly serene. She gave him 


174 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


an odd indefinable impression of greater physical vigour 
than he had ever associated with the fragile, sensitive 
creature, whose slender frame seemed worn by the fire of 
genius that burned within it. She made a glad move- 
ment towards him, and was in his arms, and he was 
pressing his lips on hers, and returning hot, eager, lovers* 
kisses. All his vague doubts and scruples fled. There 
was only the rapture of reunion. He was not afraid now 
of frightening her. She drew him to the sofa beside her, 
and leaned against him and looked up at him, her eyes 
beaming with emotion. 

‘‘Bernard,” she said, “you love me— you love me! 
me — me — only me ! ” 

He kissed her again and again. Hever were lovers’ 
protestations fonder. 

“It is so sweet to hear those words — so sweet to feel 
your arms about me, to know that you are mine — all 
mine,” she whispered. “ Oh ! Bernard, it has been such 
a long night— such a long dark night.” 

“ You have been very ill, dearest.” 

She shuddered. “ What happened ? I don’t know ; 
I can’t remember. I remember nothing except those 
eyes — flames that seemed to bum into my very being ; 
and then sudden pain and darkness, intense black 
darkness. It seemed to me as if my body lay helpless 
and bound, that my soul was hovering above the earth, 
utterly cold, lonely, desolate. I knew that I was dead, 
and I hungered for the joy of hfe. I hungered for the 


THE AVATAE. 


175 


joy of love. I felt that I had lost you, Bernard — that 
you were living and that I was wandering in bla^k space, 
and oh, so cold— so cold ! I craved to be with you. I 
yearned for you with the wildest yearning. And then it 
seemed to me that my soul willed with all its might and 
strength that it might live, and that you might love me 
— ^as I love you. And then I awoke. Say that you 
love me, Bernard.” 

‘‘ My darling, is there any need for that ? Do you 
not know that I love you ? ” 

‘‘ But not as I love you. I cannot live without you. 
Your touch thrills me like some strange electric current. 
I want to be near you. Your presence seems to warm 
and vivify me and fill me with all kinds of wild delicious 
fancies. I shall think of you to-night, and you only, 
when I am playing the Duchess of Malfi.” 

“ You are going to play to-night ? ” he asked in 
surprise. 

“ Yes, of course— and in my love scene with Antonio 
I shall see you — only you — and when I tell him of my 
love, I shall speak to you. And when I say these words, 
take them to your heart, for they will be for you. Don’t 
you remember them ? 

' You do tr amble. 

Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh 

To fear more than to love me. Sir, be confldent ; 

What isH distracts you? This is fleah and blood, siif** . , . 

She drew him down to her with a seductive gesture. 


176 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


and her arms interlaced his neck in an impassioned em- 
brace. But though he held her close, and kissed back 
the red warm lips, there ran through him a strange 
shiver of recoil. A feeling of trouble and terror came 
over him. An indescribable sort of magnetism seemed 
to emanate from her that excited and pained him, and 
turned him giddy. What did it mean ? Was it possible 
that any show of affection from the woman he idolized 
could for an instant shock and repel him? And yet 
this fervid passion did repel him, though a moment after- 
wards he hated himself for the involuntary treason. 
Was it not she herself, his Beatrice, with the violet eyes 
and the golden hair and the sweet drooping mouth ? and 
had he not welcomed so gladly any sign of effusiveness 
from her in the earlier days when it was he who had 
pleaded for her love, and it had been his lips which had 
timidly sought hers, and her kisses had been rare as 
pearls, and fresh and pure as morning dewdrops ? He 
told himself that she was overwrought, that she had 
passed through a dangerous crisis, and that the joy of 
being restored to him sufficiently accounted for these 
unaccustomed transports. 

Then he gave himself up to the moment’s happiness, 
which was so strange a blending of rapture and suffering. 
For a little while existence seemed narrowed to a lover’s 
di-eam, and then came again the throb of revulsion. He 
roused himself and shook his brain free of the fumes 
which had mounted to it. “ It is time that I should go,” 


THE AVATAR. 


177 


he said. But she clung to him and drew down his lips 
to hers. “ I love you so, 1 love you so,” she whispered in 
passionate accents. “ I have never known what it is to 
live till now ; and in my love for you is my life.” 

Was this his Beatrice whose form trembled in his 
embrace, whose eyes gazed into his so strangely, whose 
hot arms entwined his neck so that he used gentle 
force to unloose their clasp ? Good-by,” he said. He 
loosened the arms which entwined him. 

“ Till to-night,” she murmured ; ** to-night you will 
come hack with me from the theatre. Marmy is ill — 
worn out, and 1 shall be alone. Stay for a little while 
with me, and let us be happy again.” 

Till to-night,” he answered, and left her, his whole 
being a tumult of misery, joy, longing, and repugnance. 
He walked all the way back to the studio. He felt like 
a man who has taken haschish and has still self-control 
enough left to despise himself for his v;eakness. His 
own sensations were an enigma to him. It seemed 
impossible that Beatrice — ^his tender, dignified girlish 
Beatrice, could have inspired him with feelings so wild 
and contradictory. What did it mean ? he asked him- 
self over and over again, and there was no answer to the 
riddle. 

It was late when he got to the theatre. The excite- 
ment outside was great. Placards announcing that all 
available space was occupied were out over the box- 
office, and disappointed pleasure-seekers were turning 


178 


THE SOUL OP COUNTESS ADBIAN. 


away in little crowds. Eeappearance of Miss Beatrice 
Brett after her serious illness ” was announced in large 
letters. Many of the critics had assembled. It was 
supposed that Cosway Keele might hold one of his 
receptions ‘‘behind,” to celebrate the event. Lendon 
pushed his way in an 1 reached his stall. The first act 
was more than half over. It seemed to him that even 
then there was in the theatre an atmosphere of excitement 
and wonder. A pair of critics were whispering together 
over the hacks of their chairs. “It is simply extra- 
ordinary,” he heard one of them say as he brushed 
past. “ The whole nature of the woman is changed.” 
Behind him there was the same echo, “ What does she 
mean ? Is it a new reading ? ” muttered a man whom 
he knew, in the ear of his companion. 

lie had arrived during the Duchess’ scene with Cariola 
in the first act, and she was saying the concluding words 
which Beatrice had been accustomed to deliver with an 
appealing pathos that was irresistible — the pathos of a 
proud spirit forced by the accident of birth to woo 
instead of being wooed, and shrinking from the sacrifice 
of her womanly dignity, yet daring even misconception 
for the sake of a pure absorbing love. 

How strange ! She gave those words now with a half- 
defiant unsexed air as of a coquette who know^s the 
power of her wiles, and is determined, even at the cost of 
her fair fame, to bring the man to her feet. Then 
followed the scene with Antonio, in which Beatrice had 


THE AVATAR. 


179 


always before been so tender, sweet, and womanly — so 
pure, that in the very faith and fortitude of her own purity 
she was free to come down and to defy conventionality, 
and bid her lover come up to her. Now — what had come 
over her ? It was not a Duchess of Malfi, but a 
Catherine of Russia. It was not the unconventionality 
of purity, but the recklessness of passion. It was not 
the sister of Ferdinand, but Ferdinand’s own vile and 
brutal reading of his sister’s character. The tone and 
manner in which she spoke some of the lines made 
Lendon start and shudder. 

“ Awake, awake, man I 

I do here put off all vain ceremony, 

And only do appear to you a young widow 

That claims you for her husband, and, like a widow, 

I use but half a blush in’t I ” 

With her eyes and her voice and her gesture, she 
stood the embodied lust of the flesh. 


180 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADKIAN. 


CHAPTEE XI. 

The Exoecism. 

The buzz of applause -was over. This strange new 
Duchess, bold, self-indulgent, cynical, who had thrown 
the world away for the gratification of her passion and had 
met her doom with the courage of a nature that fears 
neither G-od nor man, had come before the curtain and had 
curtsied to the cheers and clappings which her remark- 
able performance deserved. Shocked, miserable and sick 
at heart, Lendon was preparing to leave the theatre. 
His mind vividly recalled the last occasion on which 
Beatrice had played the part, when -her acting had been 
wrought to so refined a pitch of spiritual passion that 
there was scarcely a dry eye in the house as the curtain 
fell to Ferdinand’s remorseful ejaculation, 

"Cover her face j mine eyes dazzle j she died yonng.*' 

This Duchess had called forth no tears, no emotion, 
save that of almost involuntary admiration of her 
dauntless bravery. The prevailing sentiment was one of 
bewilderment. From a saint the Duchess of Malfi had 
been transformed into an evil enchantress. There were 
people who declared that her very physique had changed, 


THE EXORCISM. 


181 


that her form seemed more luxuriantly moulded than 
before her illness, and that her lips and eyes had acquired 
a peculiar and voluptuous expression. A good many 
of the Dionysion clique stood in knots about the stalls 
and lower boxes, and discussed the phenomenon. 

As had been aixcicipated the word went round that 
Cosway Keele expected his immediate friends “ behind,” 
and these hundred and one intimates were waiting till 
the ordinary crowd had departed, and till the stage was 
cleared and the drop curtain once more raised. It was 
with a little difficulty that Lendon steered his way 
through. At each ton someone accosted him. 

** Mr. Lendon, what do you think of it ? , , . It is 
extraordinary! ... It is disgusting! ... It is too 
horrible ! But how could she have done it ? . . . When 
could she have thought out such a reading ? ... Do 
tell me, is she really not quite a proper person ? . . It is 

impossible that she can be nice and yet act so I ” 

‘ Such were the confused remarks and murmurs. And 
again, from a young lady artist, who delighted in the 
drama, “ I think it is simply utterly uncanny ; but I 
never saw anything so powerful. I loved the other 
Duchess of Malfi, I hate this one.” 

A bearded critic, given to rather straight language, 
pulled Lendon aside. “ Good God ! Lendon, what does 
she mean by this ? You know more of the girl than 
most of us. Why, in the name of Heaven, has she started 
on that tack ? Does she propose to rival Violet 


182 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


Belavon ? ” — he named an actress whose name was 
uttered in horror by even the more lax members of 
her profession — I never saw anything more damnably 
suggestive.” 

But what a genius I ” put in another critic, who had 
joined them. ‘‘There has never been anything the least 
like it since Lucca changed her first reading of Marguerite 
— only that was the other way. And there’s no doubt 
the character lends itself to the coarser interpretation. 
It’s much more likely the Duchess was a sinner than a 
saint — much more in the spirit of mediseval Italy. It’s 
audacious ; but as I say, it’s genius.” 

“ Are you coming behind, Mr. Lendon ? ” somebody 
asked. 

“ No I ” he returned, savagely. He could almost have 
throttled the critic who had first spoken. That Beatrice 
— ^his Beatrice, should be the subject of ribald remark! 
He heard in anticipation the gossip of club suppers. 
That she, whom he had so loved and so reverenced, should 
have dragged herself down to this ! It was too horrible 1 

He passed a night of intense misery. Part of it was 
spent in roaming the streets, and then he went home and 
paced his room till morning. He almost persuaded him- 
self that he was a victim of his own diseased imagination, 
but the morning paper confirmed too surely his im- 
pression of the night. He sent out for other papers. 
All, in more or less suggestive language, gave the same 
verdict. All expressed amazement at the singular genius 


THE EXORCISM. 


183 


which could transform an impersonation of the purest, 
most womanly, poetry into that of a high-born courtezan. 

To a nature refined, sensitive, as that of London, these 
criticisms were torture. In his quieter moments, when 
he was not writhing under the pain and shock which her 
presence caused him, he thought, with the deepest pity, 
of the agony she must suffer when she read the papers, 
and realized the feelings that her acting had produced. 
She would recover from this temporary madness, for such 
he felt certain was the cause of the change in her ; and 
then, what need of him she would have to comfort and 
console her ! He thought of Mrs. Cubison’s dark hints. 
He thought of cases he had read about, in which the 
most refined women had shown the first signs of insanity 
by a coarseness in their demeanour that had shocked and 
puzzled their friends. This was the clue to the mystery. 
He blamed himself for his own passion of revolt. What 
was his love worth if it could not bear this strain I It 
should be his part to tend and cherish her in her sickness, 
and to help reawaken her own pure exquisite nature. 
He was thinking thus when the curtain that covered 
the gallery door was drawn aside and, unannounced, 
Beatrice herself descended the steps and came towards 
him. She was alone. Never before had Beatrice 
come to him in this manner. Involuntarily his mind 
leaped to the memory of Countess Adrian and of her first 
visit to the studio. 

** Beatrice ! ” he cried. 


184 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


She had thrown hack her veil and caught both his 
hands in hers, which were hot and feverish. “ I have 
come to you,” she said ; “ because you would not come 
to me, and I long for you. You are my magnet, Bernard ; 
and if yoa were at the other end of the world I should 
fly to you. Why did you not keep your promise last 
night ? I watched, and watched. The night was so 
beautiful ; and the moon was shining, and I sat at my 
window, and my heart called to you, ‘Love ; Love — come.’ 
Where were you ? I left the theatre early ; I would not 
wait for the supper and the congratulations. Tell me. 
Did I please you ? Did you think me beautiful ? Was 
I sweet to you — my Antonio — my lover — my husband ? ” 
“Beatrice,” he said gravely, “have you read the papers? 
Do you know what they say of your performance last 
night ? ” 

She laughed lightly. “ Oh ! the critics. I have set 
them a riddle. What does it matter about them? I 
was not acting to them, but to you, I wanted to show 
you that I could love well. You saw how the Duchess 
loved Antonio. That is how I love you^ 

Lendon drew back, half unconsciously. 

“Why, my Antonio,” she said, “how cold and con- 
strained you are ! Where is your love ? The Antonio 
was not like that. He could meet his Duchess half 
way, at least, and take her to his heart. Come — ^meet 
me half way.” She advanced towards him. 

“ Beatrice,” he said gravely. “ I don’t quite understand 


THE EXORCISM. 


185 


your altered manner. You are not quite yourself. You 
are not well. You want care and tenderness and 
watching.” He forced himself to talk gently and kindly 
to her. His real self he felt sure must be all gentleness 
and kindness to her. But there was something stirring 
in his heart that seemed to keep him away from her, that 
seemed to make him shrink from her, almost to make him 
hate her. 

“Not welll” she exclaimed with a scornful laugh^ 
“ My solemn Antonio, I am bubbling over with outrageous 
health and sheer animal spirits, and with love for you. 
Come — talk to me like a lover.” 

“ You will find a lover — a true, devoted lover — in your 
husband, Beatrice.” 

“ Let us not wait too long, then ! I am sick of this 
separation, this lonely life.” There was something now in 
her tone that touched him in spite of his revolt against her. 

“ We shall not wait long, we shall be married at once, 
as soon as ever you wish.” His heart seemed to sink as 
he spoke the words. A fearful thought arose in him, 
was he as one who chains himself to a maniac ? Oh, what 
had become of his Beatrice ? ” 

“Oh, at once, at once,” she said eagerly. “I long 
to be able to call you mine for ever. You will be mine 
for ever ? ” 

“ For ever I ” The words came out as if they 
acknowledged a sentence of doom, rather than gave 
forth a pledge of love. 

N 


186 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


“In this world and the next,” she cried, and flung her 
arms round his neck. 

Suddenly she started violently. Her arms fell, and she 
cowered back as though she had seen something which 
terrified her. 

Lendon turned. There had been no announcement, 
no sound of opening door, no step on the stairs, and yet 
there, not six p ices from him, stood Maddox Ohallis — 
Maddox Ohallis, the mystic philosopher, whom the papers 
reported to be thousands of miles distant, away in the 
fastnesses of Lebanon, yet here in a light semi-Eastern 
dress, grey-bearded, keen-eyed, withered, and sallow, and 
with the same half cynical, half benevolent smile as when 
he had taken leave of the Countess Adrian at Sir Donald 
Urquhart’s supper-party. 

“ Forgive my intrusion,” he said, in his slow incisive 
way, looking from one to the other, and showing no sign 
of surprise at the effect his appearance produced. “ I 
had orders, Mr. Lendon, from those in authority, to 
present myself in your studio this morning.” 

“ From those in authority ? ” repeated Lendon in 
bewilderment. 

“ Strange things seem to have happened in the last 
few days,” Ohallis went on, taking no heed of the inter- 
ruption. “ It is the death of Countess Adrian which has 
brought me here from Palestine.” 

“ You say you have come from Palestine ! ” cried 
Lendon. “Impossible. It is scarcely a week since 


THE EXORCISM. 


187 


Countess Adrian died ; and, even if the news had been 
sent you by telegraph, you could not have arrived so 
soon.” 

The mystic smiled his peculiar smile. “ My Masters 
have other means of transmitting intelligence than by 
the electric wires,” he said. “And as for my rapid 
travelling — well, Mr. Lendon, time and space are very 
slight hindrances to those whom the Masters choose to do 
their business. If the conditions of my visit appear 
strange to you now, I will give you an explanation later.” 

“ You are welcome, Mr. Challis, under any conditions,” 
said Lendon, recovering himself. “ First, I want you 
to know this lady — my* future wife— Miss Beatrice 
B^tt.” 

Challis made a slight dignified inclination of his head, 
and his deep luminous eyes fixed themselves on Beatrice 
with an expression of sternness — it seemed to Lendon, 
of wrath. The effect his gaze produced on Beatrice was 
extraordinary. For an instant she glared at him like a 
wild animal entrapped. Then her eyes drooped as if she 
were cowed. All the grace and charm of womanhood 
vanished from her features. There was something ap- 
proaching bestiality in their look. Lendon, who had 
gone close to her, started back. As Challis addressed her 
he gave a cry of horror and amazement, but words 
forsook him. 

“ Woman, possessed with a devil,” said the mystic, 
“ my business is with you.” He drew up his bent frame 


188 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


and stood before her erect and stately, with set majestic 
face and arm upraised, the forefinger pointed at her, like 
some high priest denouncing a sinner against the 
supreme law. I know you for what you are,” he went 
on in vibrating tones that thrilled Lendon with the sense 
of being in presence of a power above things earthly. 
“ You, who walk 3d the earth in the b dy of a passion- 
tossed woman, and as Countess Adrian awoke the desire 
of sin and the lust of the flesh — spirit of all evil and 
uncleanness, in the might of the White Brotherhood, 
by the Sign which must be obeyed, by the Word which is 
Holy, I command you to come forth.” 

He pronounced some syllables in a strange tongue of 
which Lendon knew no interpretation, and with his first 
finger traced rapidly in the air the sign of the mystic 
Pentagram. As his hand moved, the Odic Force flowed 
from it, showing a faint bluish light. Fire seemed to 
flame from the Initiate’s eyes. His spare frame dilated. 
Twice again, in low awe-inspiring accents, he uttered the 
sacred formula. 

The girl struggled under the spell. Curious inarticulate 
cries came from her. Her features were contorted and 
her eyes became glassy. Her body writhed as in a con- 
vulsion, and she beat the air helplessly with her hands as 
she staggered forward, and then fell, a piteous heap, 
white and still on the ground. 

A dumb horror seized Lendon as he watched her. He 
too felt under a spell. He had an impulse to rush to her 


THE EXORCISM. 


189 


and support her, but he was not able to move or speak. 
He was conscious of a sensation of intense Cold. Again 
the mystic spoke, but his voice sounded afar-off and un- 
intelligible as a sound in a dream. A wonderfal s ipernal 
light filled the studio, outshining the light of day and 
bringing with it a giddy sense of exhilaration and of 
divine ecstasy. He fancied that he beheld for a moment 
the outlines of a gracious god-like form. There ran 
through his body a thrill ineffable, and then his limbs 
grew numb as under the influence of an atmosphere rarer 
and more potent, than that which the un tempered human 
frame can endure. His brain reeled. The celestial 
radiance, the glorious visitant, the helpless, huddled 
form of Beatrice, even the face of the Seer himself — 
all grew dim, and he knew no more. 

When he came to himself the studio was darkened, he 
was seated in his own chair, and Maddox Challis, to all 
appearance in ordinary flesh and blood, was bending over 
him, one hand on his forehead and the other feeling his 
pulse. He drew back as Lendon opened his eyes. 

“ You are right now,” he said quietly. “ The Master’s 
magnetism was more than you could stand ; but you will 
feel the benefit of it in time to come, and your studio will 
certainly be the clearer of all unwholesome influences.” 

“The Master!” repeated Lendon dreamily. “What 
has happened ?” 

“ You scarcely remember,” said Challis. “ It is well 


190 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADRIAN. 


that the impression of horror should fade. For your 
comfort I will tell you that in a few hours’ time you will 
have ceased to connect the woman you love, and who is 
pure and sweet and worthy of your love, with the soul 
of that unhappy being who was Countess Adrian.” 

“Ah!” cried Lendon with a shudder. “The horror 
comes back now. But my mind is confused. I can’t 
realize what you have done. Mr. Challis, there is a 
mystery, will you explaindt ?” 

“ Yes, there is a mystery,” replied Challis, “ but it is 
easily read by those whose eyes are open to the Inner Light. 
Mr. Lendon, if you were learned in the lore of the Cabala 
you would know that there exist in Nature certain 
elementary spirits which are indeed the astral corpses of 
those who have died in crime or in the flush and heat of 
sensuous longing, and who, bodiless, tormented by desire, 
and incapable of gratifying it, haunt cities, like vampires 
suck the vitality of human beings, and even sometimes 
enter the bodies of living persons, and thus live on in 
enjoyment of their material pleasures. 

“ To those who know, many a man and woman going 
about in the world is but a soulless organism whose higher 
self has been expelled by some sudden shock or demoniac 
machination, and whose body has become the home of 
one of these wandering earth-bound spirits. Strange it 
is that the more spiritual the nature, the more loosely 
are the particles bound together, and the more readily is 
the soul separated from the body. Do not misunder- 


THE EXORCISM. 


191 


stand me. Such expulsions, though retarding the 
progress of the soul, do it no ultimate inj ury. For the 
body is but a garment ; the spirit is eternal and must 
live again. . . . This is the occult explanation of 

incurable propensity to crime, mania, epilepsy, and other 
diseases with which medicine is powerless to grapple. 
For even in this nineteenth-century London, devils 
may enter into a man and torment him as in the 
days in Galilee when Jesu cast forth that dumb spirit 
which thre^f the young man down and tare him griev- 
ously. ... It was for this reason that the 
ancients, who understood the secret laws of nature, 
guarded their Sybils and their Pythonesses so that no 
impure magnetism might touch them, and that they 
might be less accessible to the influences from the 
astral world. In these days such beings are called 
mediums, and they are let loose in the foul atmosphere of 
cities, and woe be to those who are not pure and strong 
to escape destruction.” Challis paused. “Do you 
understand the mystery ? ” asked. “ The^ soul of 
Countess Adrian was one of these vampire spirits. When 
it lost its home of flesh Countess Adrian’s will prepared 
for it another body. Countess Adrian’s kiss established 
the necessary physical contact at the moment of dissolu- 
tion. The emotional conditions, the peculiar organization 
of Beatrice, the love of the two women for you — all 
contributed to the magnetic rapport.” 

“And Beatrice,” cried Lendon. “Oh, tell me— she 


192 


THE SOUL OF COUNTESS ADEIAN. 


is saved ? ” He rose in his agitation, one thought only 
possessing him. “ Where is she ? ” he cried. 

“ Sec,” said Challis. He led Lendon to a sofa beneath 
the window where Beatrice lay, pure, sweet, and serene, 
as a child in a happy sleep. She smiled in her dream as 
her lover bent over her. Her eyes opened. It was the 
soul that he knew which gazed out of them. 

He caught her in his arms. In that kiss, long, deep, 
wholly rapturous, the memory of Countess Adrian and 
of the nightmare Avatar vanished for ever. * When he 
released her, they were alone. Maddox Challis had 
vanished too. 




The End. 


HEART OF OAK 


1 



HEART OF OAK 


BY 

MRS. ALEXANDER 

AUTHOR OF 

“the wooing o’T,” “RALPH WILTON’s WEIRD,” ETC., ETC. 



NEW YORK 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH' ST. COR. MISSION PLACE 




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HEART OF OAK. 


The pupils of Frau Biedermann, whose ^^Hohere 
Tochter Schule ” was one of the most highly-esteemed 
institutions in the severely intellectual city of Schla- 
fenburg (so renowned for its educational advantages 
and devotion to the fine arts), had escaped from the 
heated classrooms, and were walking in twos and 
threes round the large shady garden behind the house, 
at the hour appointed for second breakfast, which the 
day scholars brought with them in those funny, long, 
circular tin cases which Germans carry slung round 
their necks. 

These pupils were chiefly Germans, largely sprinkled 
with Poles, Russians, Hungarians, even Roumanians, 
and, very distinct from all the rest, two or three 
English girls. They paced the paths with arms 
lovingly entwined. Some held books from which they 
surreptitiously conned their tasks before returning to 
their classes, or stood in groups chattering volubly 
between the mouthsful of sausage, or chocolate and 
Schwartz bread. 

Two walked soberly round and round in deep con- 
versation,, but neither hand in hand nor with arm- 
encircled waists. One — the elder— had a broad, 


198 


HEAET OF OAK. 


kindly face, liglit-blue eyes, and a profusion of 
reddish hair, held up loosely by a large comb. Her 
companion, who was younger, slighter, taller, more 
shapely, had her nut-brown locks brushed back neatly, 
and plaited into a long, thick tail, tied with dark 
blue ribbon. Both wore dark dresses of coarse, 
strong stuff, and Holland aprons, with large bibs and 
capacious pockets, their color and condition suggest- 
ing the middle of the week. 

"Well, Therese, your holiday does not seem to 
have done you much good. You look sad, as if the 
tears were near your eyes,” said the younger girl, in 
indifferent German, and she distorted her pleasant, 
good-tempered mouth by taking a huge bite out of a 
green apple she had drawn from her pocket, while 
she waited for her friend’s reply. 

"No, Maud, my dear, dear Maud ! I brought back 
a heavy heart ! ” 

^^Why? ” asked the English girl, abruptly. 

I saw my brother Karl, and ” she paused. 

Well, that would not have made you miserable.” 

Ach ! Mein Gott ! but it did ! ” 

Are you going to tell me why ? ” 
must ! I must ! ” Laying a trembling hand 
and nervous grasp on her friend’s arm, ‘ ‘ My brain 
will burst if I do not speak.” 

^^Then, pray speak ” — pausing in her mastication 
of the apple and looking steadily at her friend. 

Ah, Maud ! your cold English manner no longer 
misleads me. I know your heart. Well, my brother. 


HEART OF OAK. 


199 


my dear, brave, beautiful brother, is on the brink of 
destruction.” 

How ? Whatfs the matter ? ” 

‘Ht’s a secret, the most profound. I have almost 
sworn not to reveal it ! ” 

We'll, perhaps you had better not.” 

I must ! my dearest ! I must, or I cannot do my 
work, and you are safe.” 

I hope so ! ” 

^‘Then the dear, gallant, imprudent boy has been 
tempted by some fiend in human form to play cards, 
and lost a quantity of money ! ” 

^^Oh ! I thought only foolish, uncultured English 
officers did such things ! ” 

Ah ! my dear friend, do not mock ! Karl is but 
young. He is not yet wise, and the worst is, his regi- 
ment is ordered away, all his money is gone, and he 
cannot pay the little debts he has incurred ! The 
shop people will complain to his Colonel, and — and 
he will be ruined ! ” 

^^How awful!” said Maud, sympathetically. 
Won’t your mother help him ? ” 

‘‘ Our poor, dear mother I she has scarce enough for 
herself, or I should not be here as a pupil teacher ! 
He must not distress her I I have sixty marks, but 
that is not enough, and even if it were he would not 
take them from me. What shall I do, Meine Sieb- 
ling ? I lose my head ! Twice Fraulein Jenicke has 
rebuked me for inattention. ” 

You must not lose your head, Therese, You 


200 


HEART OF OAK. 


must help this brother of yours, and we cannot talk 
much longer. Wait till preparation time, and I will 
give you my ideas. Idl write them down. I have 
leave to go out to the Hardy’s tomorrow afternoon, 
and — and we’ll manage something. The bell will 
ring in a minute. Look, there are Hedwig and Olga 
fighting as usual. Go and scold them, or that horrid 
little Jenicke will say that you are negligent.” 

The greatly distressed Therese von Bristram hast- 
ened to do her friend’s bidding, and Maud Selby 
slowly followed, thinking to herself, I wonder why 
people say men are strong ? If loe did half the stupid 
things they do. what would everyone say? What 
nonsense it all is ! ” 

Before she finished her refiections the bell ransr, 
and the pupils hurried back to their classrooms. 

Half an hour later the severe routine of a lesson in 
modern history was broken by the daring remon- 
strance of an English girl : I answered first, Herr 
Candidat” (a divinity student giving lessons), only 
Gretchen Schlosser screamed so as soon as she saw me 
hold up my my hand,” cried Julia Brown, a young 
Briton of a different type from Maud Selby, a stout, 
round-eyed blonde, whose cheeks were crimsoned in 
the excitement of the moment. She is wrong, too. 
The battle was won before Blucher came up, and ” 

‘"Be silent, Fraulein ! This is unseemly ; sit 
down,” insisted Herr Candidat, a pale, round-should- 
ered, thin young man, with eager, imploring eyes, and 
an enormous growth of straw-colored hair, beard, and 


HEAKT OP OAK. 


201 


mustaclies ; for whom most of the girls professed pro- 
found contempt. You do not know more than the 
writer of this history? ’’ 

He may know a lot, but for this battle ” 

Sit down, Fraulein, or I shall report your con- 
duct.’’ 

“ Sit down, Julia,” said Maud Selby, aloud and 
quickly. There is no use in battling ! ” 

“The young ladies are not to speak to each other 
in class, ’’.persisted the teacher, flushing and growing 
pale by turns. 

“ Young English ladies have no discipline,” added 
the harrassed Herr Candidat. 

Do be quiet,” whispered Maud. 

^Ht is too bad to be obliged to give in,” murmured 
Julia. I know I spoke flrst,” and she sat down 
sulkily as the lesson proceeded. 

Maud was not a remarkably studious or clever girl 
intellectually ; but she was quick, capable, observant, 
with a fair share of conscience for fifteen. So she took 
a tolerably good place among her companions, and 
was on the whole a greater favorite with them than 
the pugnacious Julia Brown, who was an honest- 
hearted, irrepressible little Cockney, who had the 
narrowest, and firmest belief in the superiority of 
everything British, and was not too delicate in her 
mode of expressing it. 

The lesson over, the pupils filed out, beginning with 
the youngest. Maud Selby stopped to pick up a book 
which Julia had forgotten, while Herr Candidat sank 


202 


HEART OP OAK. 


into his chair shaken and overpowered by a fit of 
coughing. Maud silently poured out a glass of water 
from a large caraffe which stood on a side table for 
general use, and brought it to him with a slight re- 
spectful courtesy. 

He took it gratefully. I thank you, my Frau- 
lien,” he said, brokenly. ‘‘You are always good. 
You have a kind heart. If only you would work 
harder you might obtain a high place. 

“ I thank you, Herr Candidat,” Maud begin- 
ning, in her best German, when Fraulien Jenicke — 
the second mistress and partner of Frau Biedermann 
— a small, keen dark-eyed bitter Prussian, came like 
a fiash into the classroom. 

“ The botany class will assemble in another minute, 
mein Herr,” she said sharply. 

“I go, Fraulien, I go. ” He pulled himself together, 
rose, bowed humbly, and departed. 

“Why do you linger here ?” continued Fraulien 
Jenicke. “It is unbecoming, unmaidenly, to stay 
behind and gossip with 3^our master ! Ach ! Gott ! 
You English are ill brought up. You would not 
find a modest German maiden lingering in that 
way ! ” 

“ Ho ! ” returned Maud, with an angry fiush ; “ not 
even to give a cup of water to a poor man who is 
choking with his cough ! You can’t think much of 
your countrywomen then.” 

“ Insolent girl ! Your ‘ conduct record ’ will be 
as indifferent as ever this month. I shall report you 


HEART OF OAK. 


203 


to Frau Biedermann, and remember, to-morrow is 
Indian post day.” 

Maud opened lier mouth to reply, but resolutely 
closed it again. The threat of complaining to her 
father was the only menace that could intimidate the 
motherless girl. 

Colonel Selby’s return was the dream of her life. 
He had been once in England since her mother’s 
death, and that was a halcyon time for Maud. Her 
father’s photograph hung over her bed, and her last 
thoughts were usually given to him before she slept. 
To her he was the embodiment of a chivalrous gentle- 
men, a hero, an Apollo ; while to the unprejudiced 
eyes of her schoolfellows he looked a stern, rugged, 
old soldier. 

To Fraulein Jenicke Maud was the most detestable 
pupil she had ever encountered. The little Prussian 
was a tyrant by nature. Keen, accomplished, with a 
steely intelligence, she dominated kind, easy Frau 
Biedermann, who could have hardly held her estab- 
lishment together but for the strong will and organ- 
izing powers of her clever lieutenant. Nor was this 
formidable fraulein without her better side ; submit 
to her, yield implicit, unquestioning obedience, and 
she could be kind, even generous. But the smallest 
self-assertion made her an implacable foe. It was not 
that Maud Selby openly defied her, or was in any way 
rude like Julia Brown, but there was an unspoken 
something in her that could not be quelled. 

This short passage at arms roused a fierce resolution 


204 


HEAKT OF OAK. 


in Franlein Jenicke’s soal to watch with lynx eyes for 
the plots, the devices, the general devilry, which, she 
firmly believed, must lurk under the cool, composed 
demeanor of the untameable English girl. Let me 
find her out in anything — for there must be something 
to find out — and I will humble her in the dust,’’ 
was the little tyrant’s reflection. 

What a fool I am ! ” thought Maud, as she hur- 
ried away to her piano practice. only injure 

myself by making angry speeches to that spiteful little 
firebrand ! She will put Erau Biedermann up to 
giving me a bad character. That will vex my father 
awfully. Will he believe it, though ? He would not 
if I were with him — but at a distance ! Oh ! What 
a tremendous time six months seem ! And it will 
be quite six months before he can return. Then I 
will ask him to take Therese with us to keep up my 
German ! What a queer, low-minded, cross-grained, 
disagreeable thing Franlein Jenicke is ! I do hope 
she will not write anything too bad of me to my dear 
father. How thankful I am to have a holiday to- 
morrow ! The Hardy’s good old nurse will help me 
to send the money to Therese ’s brother. I could not 
do better with that two hundred-mark note my god- 
mother gave me last week. I don’t want anything, 
and it would break Therese’s heart and kill their 
mother if that stupid, weak brother of her’s was 
dismissed ! It would be ruin, I suppose ! Yes ! I’ll 
do it, and nobody shall find out.” Strengthened by 


HEART OP OAK. 


205 


this resolution, she dashed into her scales and prac- 
ticed with much vigor. 

The hour of preparation was most diligently em- 
ployed under Fraulein von Bristram^s surveillance, 
and not a few pencilled scraps of paper were exchanged 
between the friends, for in spite of Therese’s superi- 
ority in years, Maud knew considerably more of the 
world, and had her wits more alive than her direct- 
ress. 

The next day was Saturday, a beautiful June morn- 
ing, full of tender spring sunshine — for spring is late 
in Germany. 

The morning tasks had been duly accomplished 
with no more stirring event than the reduction of 
J ulia Brown and Hedwig Rakotf ska from higher to 
lower places in class — for inattention and idleness — a 
catastrophe accepted by the former in silence, with 
compressed lips and an increasing glow on her round 
and somewhat obstinate face, and by the latter with 
loud sobs, showers of tears, and eloquent bewailing of 
her hard fate. 

‘‘You are both wicked, tiresome girls,” said Frau- 
iien Jenicke. “But I have some hopes of a young 
creature who can show feeling and contrition like 
Hedwig — rather than sullen, stupid defiance, and 
total want of conscience.” This with a withering 
glance at Julia. 

At three o’clock Maud Selby descended to Frau 
Beidermann’s bureau in her best frock and hat, a 
bright expression of joy and satisfaction in her honest 


206 


HEAET OF OAK. 


steady blue eyes, and looking the type of a well-bred 
English girl. 

Are you in a great hurry, my dear? ” asked the 
head of the establishment, pleasantly. If you can 
wait a moment I will put on my bonnet and walk with 
you myself, I want to go to the Moltke Platz.” 

“ Oh ! yes, Frau Beidermann,” cried Maud. 
can wait quite well.’' She was very glad to have the 
chief instead of the lieutenant for her escort. 

I go then,” said Frau Beidermann, and left the 
room. Maud stood in thought for a moment, and 
then remembering she had not given Julia Brown a 
book she had promised to cheer her in her solitude, 
for the rest of the boarders .were going out to a con- 
cert, she ran quickly upstairs again, and not finding 
gave the volume to Therese von Bristram, whom she 
found in the schoolroom. She had just finished a 
message to the effect that she would bring back some 
sweets to her depressed compatriot when one of the 
under-governesses ran in. 

You must come down at once to Frau Beider- 
mann’s arbeit zimmer,” she cried. ^‘Fraulien 
Jenicke is waiting for you, and is sehr, sehr hose ! 
Come quick.” 

What can be the matter ? ” said Therese with a 
frightened look, as the speaker left the room. 

""Nothing ;■ nothing can be the matter ! ” began 
Maud carelessly. Then she stopped, changed color, 
and seized Therese’s arm tightly. "" I left my little 
bag down stairs. Can she, dare she have looked into 


HEAKT OF OAK. 


207 


it ? If so, Therese, whatever happens, he silent. 
Give no explanation; leave everything to me ! For 
your brother’s sake, for your mother’s sake, leave 
everything to me. I’ll manage ! Promise, prom- 
ise ! ” 

^^I will, though it be cowardly,” said Therese, 
trembling. 

^^Mind you keep your word,” whispered Maud 
emphatically, and hastened from the room. 

On reaching the ‘^chamber of horrors ” wdiich Frau 
Biedermann’s room had become, she found that lady 
standing by the center table, dismay in her face, and 
a fat letter in her hand, while opposite to her stood 
Fraulein Jenicke, erect, elate, her e3^es flashing tri- 
umphantly, while she held Maud’s neat little bag 
open and empty. 

Maud took in the position at a glance — that mo- 
ment of thoughtlessness had frustrated her well-laid 
scheme. The intended succour could never now reach 
the object of her compassion — she could only cover 
her defeat by desperate silence. 

Come here. Miss Selby ! ” cried Frau Biedermann, 
in an agitated voice. What — what is the meaning 
of this extraordinary inclosure ? Here are — let me 
see — a two-hundred mark note, two gold pieces, and 
ten thalers— all wrapped up and put in an envelope 
addressed ' K. B. ’ and inside, in curious, straight 
writing, ^with a friend’s best wishes.’ What is the 
meaning of this ! What frightful imprudence does it 
indicate? ” 


208 


HEART OE OAK. 


How dare you open my bag ? exclaimed Maud, 
turning so fiercely on Fraulein Jenicke that the im- 
perious woman shivered with a sudden sense of ex- 
hilaration at finding a ^^foe not unworthy of her 
steel. 

Be silent,” she exclaimed, or only speak to an- 
swer questions ! ’Twas in my rights when I examined 
your sack ! 

Yes,^’ added Frau Biedermann. How am I to 
watch over the young creatures committed to my 
charge if matters are hidden from me, and wicked 
schemes carried out ? ” 

The justice of these words struck Maud home. 
What could she say ? It was impossible to betray her 
friend, or her brother and his necessities. She stood 
speechless. 

Come, fraulein ! ” cried Fraulein Jenicke. 

There is no use in attempting further concealment ! 
What shameful intrigue dees this point to ? AY ho is 
K. B. ? ” 

No reply, only unspoken defiance from the gray 
eyes fixed upon hers so steadily. 

Is it some designing man whom you have per- 
mitted to establish a claim upon you ? ” A scornful 
smile was the only answer. 

‘‘You are ashamed to speak! Who is K. B. ? 
There are no English Christian names that begin with 
K ? Speak ! AYe will find the way to make you 
speak.’’ 

“Not to you,” returned Maud, feeling as if her 


HEART OF OAK. 


209 


heart would burst as she glanced round the room 
sacred to the head mistress, taking in its furniture of 
dark, walnut wood and faded green brocade — its huge 
bureau — where all the Conduct Books ” were kept 
— and the capacious writing table covered with papers, 
the open door-like window through which came the 
distant noise of rolling carriages. The last time she 
had been called into that room it was to be praised 
for some little achievement in study, and part of her 
delight in it was because it was bestowed, she felt sure, 
in spite of Fraulein Jenicke — now she was crushed and 
at her feet ! No — not if she were true to herself. “ I 
will not speak to Fraulein Jenicke ” — she went on, 
keeping her voice steady by a strong effort and ad- 
dressing Frau Biedermann. ‘‘ She hates me — she 
cannot be just to me — and I despise her ! But I am 
sorry to vex you, and certainly you ought to know 
things ! I can’t tell you the truth about this money, 
so I will not explain at all ! There is only one person 
’ to whom I would tell the truth about it, that is my 
father, and I will write to him.” 

Dare you tell hinvthe truth, Maud ? ’’ asked Frau 
Biedermann, sternly. 

can tell him ez;erything.” 

^^Well, you had better write to him at once,’^ said 
Fraulein Jenicke, quickly. Meantime Frau Bieder- 
mann must keep this money. You cannot expect to 
get it again.” 

You may do what you like with it,” cried Maud, 
struggling against a burst of tears, as she thought of 


210 


HEART OF OAK. 


the confiscation of poor Therese’s hardly-saved money. 

Oh, if my father were only here ! 

“ Ah ! You may well weep,” exclaimed Fraulein 
Jenicke, as the tears would betray themselves. 

'‘^I’m not weeping,” returned Maud, stoutly, 
restored to composure by the words — " IVe a cold in 
my head.” 

Then chief and assistant opened upon her a brisk 
fire of questions, insinuations, suggestions, some of 
which almost provoked her into speaking. 

There is no use in asking me anything,” was her 
constant reply. 

Fraulein has only given herself useless trouble and 
caused you annoyance, Frau Biedermann, by rum- 
maging my bag. If she had one of the racks from 
Nurnberg I daresay she would like to put me on it, 
but it should not force me to tell her one word.” 

Then go to your room — or rather go to the guest 
chamber,” began the irate fraulein. 

^^IS’otfor your bidding!” cried Maud, who had 
filing discretion to the winds. 

But I agree in the command,” said Frau Bieder- 
mann ; ‘^you cannot mix with the other young ladies 
while under suspicion of disgraceful proceedings. 
Go I You shall be secluded in the corner chamber 
on the third fioor until time and solitude bring you 
to your senses. Tell Paulina to come here ; I must 
send a note to Mrs. Hardy.” 

* ^ * 

If the physical rack was beyond Fraulein Jenicke’s 


HEART OF OAK. 


211 


reach, the moral torture of watching, questioning, 
harassments of all kinds were freely applied ; worst of 
all Sunday afternoon brought Mrs. Hardy, a good- 
humored, solid English woman, with more common 
sense than imagination ; to her the culprit was de- 
livered, morally bound hand and foot. 

Well, Maud, this looks like a very bad business, 
began the portly, richly- dressed, handsome matron, 
when left alone with the poor girl in the salon ; “I 
daresay it is some storm in a teacup — come, tell me 
all about it.” 

I am very sorry, Mrs. Hardy, but I can’t.’’ 

That doesn’t look well, my dear — can’t you trust 
me ? ” 

Yes, about anything else.” 

^^Then I shall be obliged to think there is some- 
thing wrong, and I had some good news for you ! 
My brother tells me that Colonel Selby will probably 
come home much sooner than was expected. Some 
military matters, I believe, oblige him to return ! ” 

‘‘ Indeed ! ” cried Maud, her eyes sparkling. 
Then all will come right ; perhaps that is the reason 
I had no letter from him last week.” 

Do you intend to tell him then ? ” 

Yes ! every word.” 

I hope so, Maud. I have hitherto thought you 
an honest girl with plenty of proper pride.” 

Don’t you think so now ? ” asked Maud, with a 
quivering lip. 


212 


HEART OF OAK. 


I really don’t know what to think. Who on earth 
is K. B. ? ” 

I told yon that I would tell everything,” said 
Maud, with a watery smile. 

I daresay it is some rubbish, but you are looking 
ill, child ; quite worn, I declare. I wanted Frau 
Biedermann to let you come and stay with us till this 
blows over, but she will not hear of it.” 

How I wish she would ! I am miserable. Dear 
Mrs. Harding, can you come and see me to-morrow ? 
I will write to my father if you will take the letter 
and pay the postage ! I haven’t a groschen ! ” 

Of course ! but can’t you trust your letters to 
them here ? ” 

No ! Fraulein Jenicke would read every word of 
it.” 

Very well, I will come some time to-morrow. Now, 
I must go.” 

That evening Therese von Bristram came with full 
permission to visit the prisoner, who had the agonis- 
ing prospect of being brought down to class in chains, 
as it were, next day. Therese, from her position, was 
supposed to be on the side of law and order, and 
would, perhaps, be able to screw her secret from the 
culprit. 

“ How miserable you, look, Therese ! You have 
been crying your eyes out,” said Maud, after they 
had hugged and kissed each other. 

And you ! you dear, noble, brave Maud ! You 
are indeed a heroine.” 


HEART OF OAK. 


213 


Nonsense ! I can just hold my tongue and wait ; 
only I wish I could give your brother a piece of my 
mind. What trouble he has given by his folly and 
weakness.^^ 

Ah ! dearest, I feel I am so base to let you suffer. 
I ought to confess.” 

You would only ruin yourself and your brother 
and shame him before everyone. I know what mine 
would think if two girls helped him, Therese. What 
ivill become of him ? 

Oh ! I have been distracted ; but leaving church 
this morning Herr Hauptmann Holderburgh met us, 
and I heard him tell Frau Biedermann that his son 
would not be moved till August, and he is in the 
same regiment with Karl, so there is time.” 

‘ ‘ Thank Heaven ! What a mercy I did not put 
K. V. B. on my letter. Now, they don’t know if I 
sent the money to a German or an Englishman, and 
I could so easily have got dear old nurse to give it to his 
servant, and she would have seen him take it in just 
when he came in from parade. Now, Therese, I must 
write to my dear father, to be ready at any time for 
Mrs. Hardy.” 

♦ * 

But Monday passed and no Mrs. Hardy came, while 
Maud’s heart grew heavy, and her letter burned in her 
pocket. 

Tuesday morning came, and again Maud dragged 
herself down to face the curious contemptuous looks 


214 


HEAKT OF OAK. 


of her comrades, the expressive coldness of her teach- 
ers. Each morning was harder than the last. 

She had just risen from her place on the entrance 
of Herr Oandidat, when someone — she knew not who 
— said: ^^Eraulein Selby must come directly to the 
gast zimmer.” 

Gladly Maud obeyed, even though she dreaded some 
fresh and fatal discovery, determined that nothing 
should make her break silence. She opened the door, 
and beheld Frau Biedermann enthroned on the sofa, 
and Fraulein Jenicke in a large arm chair, while in 
the middle of the room stood a tall, erect, stately-look- 
ing man, with a strong, rugged face, large, grizzled 
mustache, and dark, gray eyes like her own. 

My father ! my dear, dear father ! ” cried Maud, 
flying into his arms, and stretching up to cover his 
sunburnt face with kisses, while she burst into a 
passionate fit of tears, I — I am safe with you.” 

‘‘If you think that, there is not much wrong,” he 
returned, holding her to his heart. “Go, put on 
your hat, you naughty girl, and come with me ! I 
shall return, madam,” to Frau Biedermann, “when I 
have got at the root of the matter ; and try make 
things square.^’ 

Oh, the joy, the safety, the triumph of that glorious 
moment, and she could only leave a message for poor 
Therese. But there was yet another happy hour, 
when, the following day, the Colonel and his daughter 
paid a formal visit to the worthy principal of the 
young ladies^ “ akademie.” 


HEART OF OAK. 


215 


‘^My daughter has told me the whole story, mad- 
am,” he said, and I am obliged to confess that on 
the whole I approve her conduct. In her case silence 
was golden ! At the same time I heg to apologize to 
you for the uneasiness she has caused you. By 
George ! I would rather command a dozen divisions 
than have the charge of such ^ kittle -cattle ’ as 
young ladies. Had Fraulein, there, been less zealous 
or curious you would have been spared this unpleas- 
antness. How, madam, you must let me settle up 
for the quarter just begun, for, having had a com- 
mand offered me in England, I shall take my daughter 
home.” 

Fraulein Jenicke by this time was in full retreat, 
and Maud had no difiSculty in obtaining a holiday for 
Therese. 

At the happy dinner which closed this eventful day 
the Colonel decided that his daughter must have a 
companion, and that companion must he Therese. 

Now, my dear young lady, you must take this cash 
— which Frau Biedermann has given over to me — and 
here are two more one-hundred mark notes to put the 
back of it — I am an old soldier and know the tempta- 
tions a young one has to brave — give them to your 
brother on some plea. You were both foolish, gener- 
ous, imprudent young creatures ! I am sorry for the 
poor lady, your schoolmistress ; she has a heavy re- 
sponsibility ; but, by jove ! I can never regret finding 
out that my little girl has a true heart of oak, sound 
to the core I ” - 




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SOPHY 


CHAPTER I. 

I am very far from intending to tell my own story, 
and shall accordingly be as short as I can on matters 
which only concern myself, but I must mention that 
I lived to the age of thirty-nine, without ever suppos- 
ing I should have to take service ; however at that 
date, my father, a market gardener, in a fair-seeming 
way of business, died bankrupt, and I was thankful 
when by means of my kind friend and godmother, 
Mrs. Brand, I got the situation of young ladies’ maid 
to the two Miss Laghis, stepdaughters to Mr. Charles- 
worth, of Sweetfields. Mrs. Brand was the vicar’s 
wife of Maddersley ; Sweetfields lies just within the 
southeastern boundaries of Upper Maddersley. I 
had often looked through those palings as I went by, 
and thought that with the little stream threading it, 
and sloping lawns and stretching field-land and cool 
fir-walk, Sweetfields, to those who called it home, 
must be indeed a pleasant place. It is my home now, 
and I know that the idea did not mislead me. 

When I first went to Sweetfields, Mr. Charlesworth 


222 


SOPHY. 


was a new bridegroom, yet past his forty-fifth year ; a 
bookish, dreamy gentleman, to whom not a sonl in 
Maddersley, though talk of the kind is as well liked 
there as anywhere else, had once thought of giving a 
wife. He met the lady of his choice at Torquay ; she 
was a widow, some ten years younger than himself, 
and had been twice married, first as a mere girl to an 
Italian silk-merchant, Alessandro Laghi ; her second 
name was Blay. The only child of the second mar- 
riage had died in infancy ; of the other, there were 
two daughters. Miss Laghis, and these young ladies, 
Mr. Oharlesworth and their mother had determined 
to establish at Sweetfields with a governess and a few 
servants, while they made a stay of a year or it might 
be more (and so afterwards proved) in foreign 
parts. There were cook and housemaid, with a 
strong girl under them to help in the work of both, 
and a boy, in a livery jacket, to wait and answer the 
bell ; these, with myself made up our number indoors, 
and turned out to be quite sufficient ; no company 
was kept, the young ladies being still in the school- 
room. Miss Delamayn, the governess whom Mrs. 
Oharlesworth had engaged for them, came one day, 
her pupils the next ; I believe we all looked on one 
another a little doubtfully at first ; it was an awk- 
wardness that soon wore off. But now I must not go 
any further, without giving some description of Lau- 
retta and Sophy — so my young mistresses were called, 
Lauretta had just turned her seventeenth year. 
She was short and plump, with the prettiest dimpled 


SOPHY. 


223 


arms and hands I ever saw, and very little feet. I 
should exaggerate, perhaps, if I were to call her a 
heaut}^, hut at any rate, it was impossible to look at 
her without pleasure. She had features of infantine 
softness, a peachy complexion which got a sprinkling 
of freckles as the summer heats came on, reddish 
hair, not in any great quantity, but what there was of 
it, soft as silk and tending to curl ; small, sleepy 
hazel eyes twinkling into starry brightness when she 
laughed or was eager over anything ; add to this, a 
look of simplicity and dependency on others and a 
trick of biting in her under lip, and you have Lauretta, 
as far as outward appearance goes, complete. 

You would never have taken Sophy for her sister. 
She was two years the younger, taller than Lauretta, 
yet not tall ; very strongly made. To tell the truth, 
the first time I saw her, with her marked, meagre cast 
of face, and sallow skin and dark burning eyes, I 
thought her like nothing so much as one of those 
poor wandering Italian boys we see here, earning 
their chance coppers about our doors ; she was more 
chary of her smiles than they are, but when she did 
smile, the effect was the same — a brilliant, beautiful 
flash, teeth of pearl showing, the whole countenance 
altering in a moment. Both Lauretta and Sophy 
were very childish in some respects, totally unac- 
quainted with the notions of any part of life beyond 
that narrow one which had been their own ; they had 
grown up under the roof of their mother’s uncle, who 
it seemed, had a farm in a wild corner of Kent ; their 


224 


SOPHY. 


mother, since she had married her second husband, 
and Sophy was then but three years old, had been 
almost a stranger to them. He was a spendthrift and 
a rogue. Miss Delamayn told me ; they separated at 
the end of a few years, and Mrs. Blay, as she was at 
that time, took to living with ladies in need of a com- 
panion ; she was in some such post when Mr. Charles- 
worth met and married her at Torquay. Mr. Blay 
had been dead two years. Money being scarce, and 
no female relative with them at the farm, these girls 
had but three frocks apiece, of which, one was unfit 
to wear and the best by no means new ; their under- 
clothing was in a sad state of disrepair, though Sophy, 
the active one of the sisters, had cobbled the rents, 
after a fashion, for herself and Lauretta too. I was 
glad to find that Miss Delamayn had been allowed a 
handsome sum for the replenishing of their ward- 
robes. Lauretta went half crazy with delight over 
her new attire ; Sophy was charmed to see Lauretta 
dressed, and indifferent as to her own part of the 
business ; she had, with the muscular strength and 
something the appearance of a boy, tastes and habits 
to correspond. Biding, cricket, venturous climbing, 
shooting at a mark, the rearing of young animals — 
these, I gathered, had been her favorite pursuits, 
Lauretta sharing in them, as far as she was able, and 
contented to be outshone. The affection between the 
two was something extraordinary; though of such 
different dispositions, they lived in perfect sympathy 
and the most intimate understanding of one another. 


SOPHY. 


225 


Sophy’s passion for her sister seemed the more 
remarkable, because she did not easily attach herself 
to any one, acting as if she had fully enough in Lau- 
retta’s love, but the elder girl was soft-hearted and 
caressing and made friends with readiness ; Miss 
Delamayn preferred her far above Sophy, as was nat- 
ural ; Sophy was my favorite. 

Mr. and Mrs. Oharlesworth had been married just 
a year when a child was born to them — a daughter ; 
I felt pretty certain that they would bring the infant 
to England as soon as prudence allowed, but I was 
mistaken. Another year went over, and Miss Dela- 
mayn and I began to look at the blooming, fully-devel- 
oped Lauretta, now passed nineteen, and wonder 
how long she and Sophy were to be left to their 
studies and seclusion, when a change came. Mrs. 
Oharlesworth died at !Nice, a town in southern France, 
of a sudden inflammation on the lungs ; Mr. Oharles- 
worth writing home, announced his intention of re- 
turning at once to Sweetfields with his child ; the lady 
who had enjoyed her ease and variety of diversions such 
a short while was to be buried abroad. Something 
happened, however, which obliged Mr. Oharlesworth 
to alter his plan. Sophy sickened with scarlet fever ; 
Miss Delamayn at once took Lauretta away to lodg- 
ings in Maddersley, while I remained in charge of the 
younger girl. As soon as it became surely evident 
that she had not caught the infection, Lauretta joined 
her step-father at Fontainbleau, near Paris. 

Sophy was long and violently ill. The doctor who 


226 


SOPHY. 


attended her, had more fears than I could share 
in. At the highest of the fever, and later, when ex- 
treme weakness followed it, I never felt death near, 
and I was right. She recovered, and as soon as she 
grew strong enough, the doctor ordered her to the 
sea. It was arranged that she should go for six weeks 
to Deal, under my sole care. By the time we left 
Sweetfields spring was drawing into summer. Mr. 
Oharlesworth had sent his agent orders to have the 
house done up from roof to basement, while we were 
away. At the end of June, or the beginning of July, 
it was expected that he would return there, and 
Lauretta, of course, with him. Keeping this reunion 
with her sister, which was no longer so very distant, 
steadily in view, Sophy bore her loneliness with a great 
deal of patience ; we tried to make out some happy 
hours at Deal, and the girl’s native vigor came back 
to her apace. Her looks were improved by her illness ; 
she had gained in height ; her skin was more clear 
and her features seemed softer ; a blush of red showed 
in her cheeks, which used to be singularly colorless ; 
in a word, Sophy began to grow handsome, but with 
no more consciousness of her person, or wish to excite 
admiration than formerly. 

One afternoon, about a week before we came away 
from Deal, I had left Sophy happily absorbed, as I 
thought, in a letter from Lauretta, and busied myself 
in the kitchen, getting the tea. As I returned Sophy 
met me at the door of our parlor, with a pale face and 
her large eyes staring wistfully and half -frightened out 


SOPHY. 


227 


of it. I set down the tray in a hurry, and then with- 
out a word, she put the letter into my hand. I in- 
quired if I was to read it ; she made a sign in the 
affirmative and walked out of the room. 

My Owh Darling Sis, — (Lauretta wrote) — My 
Precious one, how can I write you my great ne-ws? 
You will be surprised, I know, and so was I, for I am 
not a hundredth part good enough or clever enough, 
darling. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Gran- 
dire. I have mentioned him several times, you know, 
and described him a little, but not nearly nice enough 
— he is quite perfect. AYe have often talked about my 
Sis, and he is going to love you exactly like a sister, 
and I seem to love my Sis and long for her more than 
I did before. You must love him and be sweet to him, 
or it will spoil all for me. His name is Henry, but I 
have not called him by it yet. He is very particular 
and difficult to please. I can’t think why he likes silly 
me. He has a castle in Ireland ; fancy you and me in 
a castle ! It is post-time, so I must stop. Papa’s 
love, little Lulu’s' too, our sweet, weeny sister. Good- 
bye, darling, mind you write directly and put some 
kisses in, and tell me you’re glad for 

Your lovingest 

Laury. 

I read this scrawl, for it was no better, three or 
four times through, and I was still sitting and look- 
ing at it when Sophy came in again. She continued 


228 


SOPHY. 


very pale, but bad a kind of fixed serenity in her ex- 
pression ; I told her I hoped she would feel able to 
take part in Lauretta’s joy, and she answered gravely 

Yes, Ellen, I am glad for Laury’s sake ; Laury al- 
ways thought it must be a good thing to get mar- 
ried.” With this speech she began and ended ; I do 
not believe I heard her allude to the subject again. 

I need scarcely say that Mr. Grandire did not ap- 
pear in the eyes of other people as the angel Lauretta 
painted him. He was a rather dark young man of 
four or five-and-twenty, with a melancholy brow and 
quiet manners. I saw little of him, but, when I had 
the opportunity, I studied his face carefully, and I 
thought I could read a difl&cult, exacting temper in 
the lines of it. I am aware now, from after experi- 
ence of the gentleman’s ways, that my opinion was 
correct. Sunny, manageable little Lauretta was made 
for his happiness ; his eye lightened when it rested 
on her, and, for her part, she fairly adored him. He 
exerted himself to get intimate with Sophy, but not 
very successfully ; there remained always a certain 
distance between them, which neither his attempts to 
please her, nor Sophy’s determined civility, did much 
to lessen; fortunately for Lauretta, she was not 
quick-sighted, and so long as her lover and her sister 
appeared like friends, made herself quite content. 

I found a new phase of things at Sweetfields ; the 
household was put back on its former footing, and 
Miss Louisa Charlesworth’s foreign maid having been 
suddenly detected in a serious piece of misconduct, 


SOPHY. 


229 


Mr. Oharlesworth got such a fright, that nothing else 
would suit him but I must undertake the superin- 
tendence of the nursery. I had a steady girl under me, 
and so was not obliged to give up attending on my 
young ladies. 

Now, hoping to be excused for the broken, hap- 
hazard way in which I write, I shall travel on to the 
first week in September. The thirtieth day of that 
month was fixed for the wedding, Mr. Grandire 
being a rich man, and with no one’s pleasure to con- 
sult beyond his own, there was no reason for deferr- 
ing it ; but as Lauretta and Sophy were still in mourn- 
ing for their mother, the ceremony was to be perfectly 
private and quiet. Mr. Grandire was staying in Lon- 
don. Maddersley is almost a suburban place, thir- 
teen miles from town by rail ; he came down three 
or four times a week. Sophy’s unjealous satisfaction 
in the spectacle of Lauretta’s felicity outwent my best 
expectations ; I trusted that as time went on, she 
and Mr. Grandire would somehow get drawn closer 
together. Thus serenely then were we situated, and 
I am sure no presentiment of disaster troubled any of 
us. Alas, it was close at hand ! 


230 


SOPHY. 


CHAPTER II. 

One evening, when Mr. Grandire was coming to din- 
ner, I went into the young ladies’ room at six o’clock. 
Dinner was not till half-past seven, but Lauretta, I 
knew, would want to be dressed early ; Mr. Grandire 
was expected in half an hour. The sisters had gone 
together for a stroll down Mill Lane, the narrow, coun- 
try-looking road, with no way for carriages, into which 
two doors opened from the grounds of Sweetfields ; 
one at the end of the fir-walk, the other nearer the 
house. I was surprised not to see them returned, for 
Lauretta had only accompanied Sophy on the under- 
standing that their walk was not to extend beyond a 
quarter of a mile. However, I concluded that the 
beauty of the evening, mild as midsummer, and 
bathed in the last light of the sun, had tempted them 
to linger, and so many thoughts were busy within me, 
I did not tire of waiting or notice enough how time 
slipped away, until I started to hear Lauretta’s new 
French clock, a present from an aunt of Mr. Grandire, 
strike the half-hour ; then I had a sensation of un- 
easiness, but, nearly at the same moment, there were 
steps along the passage, and the young ladies came in. 

Lauretta’s face was disfigured with crying, almost 
past recognition ; she turned it away as soon as she 
saw me, and walked to one of the windows, where she 
stood, looking out. Sophy had shed no tears, but 


SOPHY. 


231 


the faint flush her cheeks wore, when I saw her start 
with Lauretta, was deepened to crimson ; she had not 
so much sorrow as a kind of violence in her altered 
aspect ; something I cannot give any notion of in 
words ; it alarmed me more than the traces of Lau- 
retta’s passionate weeping. 

^‘My dears ! I could but exclaim — ^^Miss Lau- 
retta ! — Miss Sophy ! — is there bad news ? 

There is no news, Ellen, said Sophy, compos- 
edly taking off her hat and gloves and laying them on 
a chair. “ Laury, it is twenty-five minutes to seven ; 
get dressed.” 

I saw that for once I was not to be confided in, so, 
though I still felt my heart flutter with dismay, I said 
no more. The business of dressing was proceeded 
with as usual, only in dreary silence. I put some 
rose-water in Lauretta^s hand basin, and with infinite 
pains, she succeeded after a time in restoring her deli- 
cate complexion to something more like its natural 
hues ; but when she was at last all ready to go down 
to her lover, she suddenly faltered, trembled, gave a 
piteous look at Sophy, and, sinking down on the end 
of her bed, burst again into tears. 

Miss Laury ! ” I cried, Miss Laury, love, what 
ails you ? ” 

“ It’s nothing — nothing, Ellen,” she protested 
through her sobs ; then, as if seeing the folly of her 
words, ‘‘ It’s my head — oh, my head aches so ! ” she 
said. What shall I do ? ” 

I glanced towards Sophy, who stood a little aloof, 


232 


SOPHY. 


with her eyes straight before her, and that same 
dreadful, hitter look working in her features. 

^‘Miss Sophy,’’ I said vehemently, I can’t bear 
to see you look so ; there must be something wrong 
in your heart to come out like that ! ” I scarcely knew 
what I said, but boldness never otfended Sophy. 

My heart ! I am not thinking about my heart, 
Ellen,” she answered, half absently. ^‘Please,” she 
added, “you had better leave us.” 

I saw her gather Lauretta maternally to her (she 
was always the leader and protector of the two), and 
I hurried away to the nursery with the contagion of 
a woe I could not even guess at, strong in my breast. 
Celia, my nurse maid, said I looked cold. 

Miss Lulu is in the drawing room,” she went on. 
“ The master came and fetched her himself, and you 
are to go for her, Mrs. Wilson, at twenty minutes 
past seven.” 

When I went down the young ladies had not ap- 
peared. Mr. Grandire stood on the hearth-rug in 
front of a new-lit fire, all impatience and perplexity, 
as I could see, although he was for preserving his 
usual rather formal demeanor. I could not wonder 
that he felt doubtful what to think, for his simple 
Lauretta would usually fly to him the moment she 
knew he was in the house. Mr. Oharlesworth was on 
the sofa at some game with his little girl, equally de- 
lightful to both. The precocious elf-like child shook 
her head when she saw me, and very intelligibly 
declared that she did not mean to go up in the 


Sophy. 


m 


nursery with Ellen. Her father could never hear to 
see her thwarted, and I was fruitlessly trying to per- 
suade her with promises, when the door opened, on 
which Mr. Grandire’s wearying eyes were fixed, and 
Lauretta and Sophy, in their black silk frocks, entered 
hand in hand. 

It was still very evident that Lauretta had been 
crying, hut as her face sprang into smiles and a flush 
of emotion at the sight of her lover, those marks on her 
face showed less. Mr. Grandire saw them, however, 
and surveyed her anxiously, retaining her hand while 
he exchanged a proper greeting with Sophy, who the 
next moment joined me by the sofa. Lulu had a 
partiality for her black-haired step-sister, unaccount- 
able to me ; Sophy, I thought, treated the child in a 
manner quite out of keeping with her infant years ; 
but so it was, and now, docile directly and well-pleased 
she left her pretended carriage for Sophy’s arms, and 
let herself be taken upstairs without a single cross 
word or cry. I followed in silence. 

I have been particular in recounting my impressions 
of that evening, because a marked change in the 
behavior and spirits of the young ladies dated from it. 
Mr. Grandire, it so happened, had been obliged to 
make his visit one of farewell, if the term be not too 
solemn when he was only to remain away two weeks. 
Some disaster occuring on his Irish property, ho was 
urgently needed there, and whatever Mr. Grandire^’s 
faults of temper may be, certainly he was never known 
to put inclination before duty. Every one in the 


234 


SOPHY. 


house, but myself, ascribed Lauretta’s constant de- 
jection to his absence. Mr. Oharlesworth rallied her 
mildly ; Miss Delamayn thought it right to show her 
the sinfulness of giving away to such overstrained 
sentimental sorrow. Lauretta listened languidly 
without denying the charge ; I felt sure that it went 
far wide. 

She continued to weep in secret — that is, when 
alone with Sophy ; for the two were more inseparable 
than ever, and her round face got a look of care very 
strange to it ; even her bright bloom seemed fading. 
Sophy did not bear about her any such unmistakable 
marks of suffering as Lauretta ; but I, knowing her 
so well, saw that the trouble was divided between 
them, as indeed it could not be otherwise. They 
withdrew themselves a great deal, and in the few 
country walks they took, wanted neither other 
society nor attendance. Miss Delamayn remarked 
that she supposed it was natural they should m.ake 
the most of what short time they had left to spend 
together in the old way, and so everything combined 
to prevent their conduct from appearing inexplicably 
singular. I was the only one who suspected a mystery, 
and tired myself out with unaided melancholy con- 
jectures ; my waking hours were overcast ; all the 
dreams I had, miserable. 

In this way, more than half the time of Mr. Gran- 
dire’s stay in Ireland had gone by, when on a Sunday 
evening, at about six o’clock, I was returning from 
the new cemetery, where I had been to lay a cross of 


SOPHY. 


235 


white dahlias on my father’s grave ; it was his birth- 
day. As I came to the top of Mill Lane, I saw Sophy 
issue quickly from the gate of an untenanted farm- 
house belonging to Mr. Charlesworth, which stood on 
the opposite side of the road — opposite, that is, to 
Sweetfields. I say untenanted ; an old woman and 
her granddaughter lived there as caretakers, but I 
knew that they were in the habit of shutting the 
place up early on Sunday morning, and going to spend 
the day with relations in Maddersley ; they would 
not return before night. I began to wonder with a 
strange thrill what had taken Sophy at this hour into 
the neglected, lonely garden of the farm, and then I 
rebuked myself, for I knew that but for my rooted 
notion of something amiss, I should have thought lit- 
tle of seeing her there. She waited for me to join her, 
which helped to reassure me, and I noticed directly 
an irrepressible animation in her air and a particular 
gleaming of her dark eyes ; she appeared elate. But 
soon, as I walked by her side, I found that her frock 
and mantle were faintly impregnated with the smell 
of tobacco, and very bad tobacco, too ; this may seem 
a trivial thing, yet it brought back all my nameless 
apprehensions. 

‘^Miss Sophy, dear,^’ I said, as quietly as I could, 

where can you have been to get so unpleasantly 
scented ? ” 

Sophy started. 

'^You need not walk with me then, Ellen,” she 
replied after a moment, standing still and raising her 


236 


SOPHY. 


head with a proud air ; but her bosom panted — ^^you 
can go on.’’ 

She signed with her hand. 

Miss Sophy,” I said, stopping too (this was a 
quiet road always, and now entirely deserted), ^^you are 
cruel, pretending to misunderstand me. I thought 
you considered me a friend, a very humble one, I 

know, but feelings ” I could say no more, I 

walked quickly on. 

Sophy followed me. Her masterful little hand 
came pushing through my arm. 

How foolish, Ellen ! ” she said. Of course we 
are friends. There — don’t let us talk any more ! ” 

I had to be satisfied with this reconciliation ; 
explanation was not to be looked for. 

Lauretta and Sophy were closeted together for nearly 
an hour when the younger girl came in, and from 
that time I saw Lauretta, — there was no mistaking it 
— raise up her head like a revived flower ; back came 
the frequent laugh and the airy demeanor, and the 
sweet colors, and all the gay, idle ways. Sophy shared 
in the relief, after her undemonstrative fashion, the 
cloud cleared off suddenly and secretly as it had 
arisen ; and now was I, too, at ease ? I cannot say 
so. 


SOPHY. 


237 


CHAPTER III. 

It was about this time that we heard of young Mr. 
Erench being expected at Sweetfields. He was the 
son of Mr. Charle&worth’s only sister, who had died 
early, leaving this one boy. An out-of-the-way name 
he had — Fabian. The father was an Englishman by 
birth and breeding, but after his wife’s death had 
gone over to America, where he was one of the part- 
ners in a thriving mercantile concern. I had often 
sat looking at tall, blue-eyed Miss Eglantine Charles- 
worth in Maddersley church, when I was a growing 
girl and she a charming young lady; I used to admire 
her past everything, and now felt a curious interest 
in the thought of seeing her son. I little dreamed 
what manner of meeting our first one was to be. 

Mr. Grandire returned, the days passed on wings, 
we found ourselves at the 27th of Septemter — the 
wedding, as I said before, was appointed for the 30th. 

Well, that 27th ! It opened tranquilly enough. 
Mr. Grandire came down early in the morning, and at 
twelve o’clock drove Lauretta over to Kingsferry, a 
town six miles from Maddersley, where they were to 
pay a long-promised visit to an invalid lady, an old 
friend of the Charlesworth family. Mr. Charlesworth 
accompanied them. Sophy was invited, but she 
begged oil from the expedition. Mr. French, I must 
not forget to say, had written that he should arrive 


SOPHY. 




at his uncle’s house on the 28th. I myself had a tri- 
fling yet necessary purchase to make in Maddersley ; 
in fact I wanted to match the trimming of the silver- 
gray gown I had made for Lauretta’s wedding with 
two dozen of small buttons, some which I had bought, 
inconsiderately attracted by a prettiness in the shape, 
turning out to be of too light a color. I gave Lulu 
her tea at flve, left her with a new picture book on 
Celia’s lap, and set briskly forth, a little disappointed 
that Sophy, being alone, had not come up to ask for 
a cup of tea in the nursery. Miss Delamayn had 
gone to see a married sister in London. It was a 
cloudy, chill evening as if tending to rain ; I walked 
so fast, for though stoutish, I was yet very active, 
that by the time I got to Field’s, a high-class draper’s 
shop, right opposite the Maddersley parish church, 
I felt myself all in a glow. I stood a minute at the 
window, and then turning to pass in, became 
aware that a man whom I noticed lounging along the 
street as I came up, had stopped at a short distance 
from me, and was making me the object of a fixed, 
uncivilly attentive stare. I felt puzzled, but I was 
too old to be embarrassed or distressed ; I gave him 
a steady look, which he returned with a half-repressed, 
meaning smile, and seemed for a moment as if he 
were going to speak, hesitated, however, and finally 
turned on his heel and walked on at his former slow, 
swaggering pace. 

His appearance, before this oddness in his behavior 
drew my notice, had struck me disagreeably ; he 


SOPHY. 




looked about thirty, was dressed smartly in new 
clothes, he had an ill-bred air, yet an undeniable hand- 
someness about him, too ; a squarej upright figure and 
red-and-white complexioned face with a brown, bushy 
mustache and darker hair. He walked away, and I 
persuaded myself that he 'might not be entirely sober, 
and so put the matter out of my head. My father’s 
old friend, Mr. Field, came to the counter himself. 
I had soon selected the right buttons, but could not 
get away without going around into the parlor to chat 
awhile with his wife ; thus more time went by than I 
knew, as 1 found when I came out again and looked 
at the church clock. I hurried back between the 
lamps and lighted shops of Maddersley, and through 
the duller streets of Upper Maddersley, and on along 
the bit of lonely meadow-skirted high road, from 
which a by-way (leading down, if one followed it fur- 
ther, to the corner of Mill Lane) took me in less than 
five minutes round to the servants’ entrance of Sweet- 
fields. 

I do not know why, but I no sooner got inside the 
house, than, seeing Rose Miller, the under housemaid, 
I inquired after Sophy. 

Miss Sophy is out,” said Rose — and as I exclaimed 
'in surprise — Miss Sophy is only gone in the grounds,” 
she added ; she is so fond of being out at twi- 
light.” This was true. 

I found Lulu in a restless, fretty mood ; I knew she 
would not sleep if I put her to bed like that ; so, with 
her arms around my neck and her fiaxen head nest- 


240 


SOPHY. 


ing in it, down we came into the hall, to listen for 
the carriage ; it was expected every minute. Lulu, 
now at the height' of contentment, began making a 
little singing sound, not unlike some hedge-birds, a 
sure sign that she was happy ; I walked her up and 
down, regretting to feel my burden so light. Lulu was 
the slenderest child I ever had to do with. Suddenly 
she cried out, Wheels ! wheels ! ’’ I could not hear 
them so soon, but at the same moment some one rang 
the front-door bell ; the footman ran to open it, and 
there, in the light of the great lamp, stood an un- 
looked for, dismaying apparition — a young man mor- 
tally pale, yet his face wore a smile ; he had his coat 
open, and a handkerchief held against his breast, 
streaming with blood. 

I confess my first thought was to keep the tender 
infant in my arms from seeing the blood ; I must 
have seemed to act like a person distracted with ter- 
ror, as I fiew up stairs. I merely pushed Lulu 
screaming with disappointment into Celia’s arms and 
bade the girl keep the nursery door fast until I re- 
turned ; then I ran back to the hall. 

I had known the wounded youth the instant I set 
eyes on him ; no one who had seen his mother as a 
girl could mistake those features, the peculiarly blue 
eye and elegant make of figure ; it was Mr. Charles- 
worth’s nephew, Fabian French. I got to the half 
again as he just sat down on one of the oaken chairs ; 
1 told Gibbons to fetch me some brandy, and sup- 
ported Mr. French as best I could, for he was half 


SOPHY. 


241 


fainting, yet he spoke and thanked me with a great 
deal of courtesy. 

I thought Gibbons dawdled intolerably, though the 
poor fellow, I believe, really made all the haste he 
could, and was not gone above two or three minutes ; 
however, before I had the brandy, Mr. French fell in 
a dead swoon. Gibbons cried out he was dead indeed, 
but I knew better than that. While I put the brandy 
to his lips, and now the whole household getting astir, 
Mrs. Parpworth, the cook, brought cold wet linen, 
and tlie silly girls in the servants’ hall set up a shriek- 
ing and sobbing which we could hear quite plainly. 
In the middle of this scene, the carriage dashed up 
to the door ; Miss Delamayn was there, too ; in a 
moment the hall appeared full of people and all was 
distress, confusion, aimless movement, crossing half- 
heard talk. Mr. Grandire did best ; hearing that the 
coachman had already ridden off to Maddersley for a 
doctor, he ruled down the miserable bustle, sent the 
servants, with the exception of Gibbons and myself, 
from the spot, requested Lauretta, who had behaved 
very creditably, to take hysterical Miss Delamayn into 
the drawing-room, and himself, with the assistance of 
Gibbons, carried Mr. French straight up to bed. Mr. 
Charlesworth I pitied sincerely ; he leant against 
the wall of the passage as we entered Mr. French’s 
room, trembling in an agony of concern. His father’s 
only child ! ” he repeated several times despairingly. 
It was evident that with the unaccustomed signs of 
violent accident before his eyes, he at once, without 


242 


'SOPHY. 


waiting for opinion or examination, gave the young 
man over for lost. All these things take more time 
to describe than they did in the happening ; it was 
not really long before Mr. French recovered conscious- 
ness, and by the time Dr. Springwater (the gentleman 
who attended Sophy) and a surgeon from Maddersley 
hospital arrived together, he was well able to speak. 
They gave a good account of the injury, which was a 
pistol-shot wound, a little below the neck, on the left 
side — of a simple nature, I think they said ; but what 
satisfied Mr. Charlesworth more than anything else, 
was their telling him that he need not alarm old Mr. 
French or inform him of the event, except lightly in 
the usual way of letter writing. When Mr. Charles- 
worth heard them say this, he could breathe and look 
about him again, and the whole house in a less degree 
felt the same ; a weight on all spirits was as if moved 
away. 

The first moment I got time to sit down and think, 
my mind darted to Sophy. She had not shown her- 
self. Lulu, tired out, was sleeping quietly in her crib. 
I wanted to find my other charge ; since her illness, 
Sophy always appeared to me a little in that light. I 
went and knocked at the young ladies’ door. 

Come in,” said Lauretta’s voice ; she was standing 
at the mirror, trying to fix some chrysanthemums in 
her hair. Sophy, still in the short black-and-white 
plaid cloak, and knitted cap, which she usually wore 
in the garden, knelt by the window. I told her that 


SOPHY. 


243 


dinner, which had been put off, would he ready in ten 
minutes ; she turned round. 

There is plenty of time,” she said. 

‘‘I don’t like chrysanthemums,” remarked Lau- 
retta ; they look made-up. I like myself better 
without them ; what do 3^ou say, Ellen ? ” 

‘ ^ The white relieves your black, miss,” I said ; ‘Met 
me arrange them for you.” While I did so, I 
noticed how dull Sophy looked, as it over-fatigued. 

“ Have you potted out the mignonette you promised 
me from your garden. Sis ? ” Lauretta inquired. 

“ Yes,” said Sophy. 

“You lamb ! Do you think it will thrive ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Sophy, again. 

Lauretta looked quickly round at her sister, “ Are 
you grieving for papa?” she asked. “So would I 
indeed, but he is quite cheerful now ; I heard Dr. 
Springwater say it was only a matter of some pain and 
and a little time, and men ought not to mind pain, 
you know, and Mr. French has nothing to do ; his 
time doesn’t signify.” 

“I am not grieving,” said Sophy, steadily. “I 
have not tender enough feelings for that. Ellen 
looks as if she did not believe me, but it is true, 
nevertheless. ” 

Lauretta sat down on her lap. 

“I asked papa if we should put it off,” she said 
(she alluded to the wedding), “but he said, no. 
You’ll kiss Henry — won’t you, Sis ?— afterwards.” 


244 


SOPHY. 


don't mind/' said Sophy, gently, ‘^if it is the 
custom." 

Ellen ! " cried Lauretta, in a sudden rapture ; 
^^will you look at this darling ?" 

“ I am sorry to see Miss Sophy rather pale," I said. 

Lauretta touched her rosy fingers to Sophy’s cheek. 

Henry says you will he a beauty some day," she 
half whispered. When you are with us, I shall 
give balls, and everyone will be saying, ‘ Who is that 
peerless girl ? ’ and the answer will be : ^ Don't you 

know? Mrs. ’ " — here Lauretta blushed, but went 

boldly on — ^ Mrs. Grandire's sister.' " 

Henry is wondering where you are," said Sophy. 

‘^Let him wonder a minute longer, then," Lau- 
retta replied. 

Sophy had been sitting quite still until now, she 
embraced Lauretta with a burst of emotion such as 
she seldom showed. 

Oh, Laury ! " she cried, almost wildly, “Laury ! 
Laury ! Laury ! " 


SOPHY. 


245 


CHAPTER IV. 

Mr. French’s story was as follows : To begin with, 
he arrived in London a day sooner than he had ex- 
pected. Some delay arising at the station there about 
his luggage, he left his valet to bring it by the next 
train, and himself came straight down to Maddersley. 
He walked from the station. He had stayed at Sweet- 
fields as a child, so knew the place well, and when he 
reached the turning which leads into Mill Lane, the 
fancy seized him to take that way instead of bearing 
on along the Cranley high-road and entering by the 
front gates. ^‘1 wanted to surprise you all,” he said 
to his uncle, well — I succeeded. I loitered down Mill 
Lane ; I crossed the bridge ; I came to the door into 
fir-walk. It used to be kept locked ; I found it 
ajar. I walked in. I wondered if it could be the 
same place ; I remembered a forest. I pushed down 
through the plantation till I got to a sort of little open 
space ; I caught a glimpse of the house from there ; 
I stared at the house— I was leaning, you must under- 
stand, against a tree, in a sentimental attitude, I dare- 
say — I heard nothing, saw nothing, then or after- 
wards, but the next thing I knew, I had a bullet in 
me.” 

Mr. Oharlesworth. as may be supposed, made all 
the efforts imaginable to trace this mysterious disas- 
ter to its origin ; his pains were lost ; nothing could 


246 


SOPHY. 


be discovered. Mr. French, of course, had looked 
about here and there, on finding he was shot, but 
the fir-trees closing pretty thickly round the place 
where he described himself to have stood, the hour 
too, that of evening, an adroit person would be very 
likely to evade his solitary search ; it was cut short, 
moreover, by his disabled condition, and altogether the 
escape of the culprit at that moment could not sur- 
prise us. The privacy of the place and absence of 
motive gave the thing a plain character of accident ; 
malice or intent to rob being equally out of the ques- 
tion. Mr. Grandire was convinced that some scape- 
grace boy had been trespassing in the fir- walk, with 
his eye on small game, owls or rabbits ; this had the 
sound of a credible supposition, and as time went on, 
Mr. Charles worth was obliged to content himself with 
it, and even offered a free pardon to anyone who 
should come forward and confess himself as such a 
trespasser and the unwitting cause of Mr. Frenches 
wound ; the offer fell on silence. 

As for Mr. French, he took the whole affair very 
lightly. Young as he was, barely past twenty-one, he 
had already been about the world a good deal, and 
some strange, rough experiences had fallen to his lot. 
I was often in the room, waiting on him ; and he 
liked to talk, and his conversation was something new 
to me. He had gay spirits which confinement and 
forced inaction could not exhaust ; a tongue he used 
how he pleased ; a giving hand ; a look so attractive. 


SOPHY. 


247 


children loved him directly ; fanciful, reserved little 
Lulu courted his kisses. 

It was a pity he could not he present at Lauretta’s 
wedding ; his liveliness was sadly wanted on the occa- 
sion. Mr. Grandire’s agitation made him nervous 
and stiff ; his cousin, who came with him as grooms- 
man, was shy ; only Lauretta smiled, pretty as a rose- 
bud. Sophy’s picture would have done almost as well 
as her presence, she kept so silent and unapproachably 
grave. Mr. Oharlesworth did not fill the post of 
official father to the bride gracefully, though, as we all 
knew, he had shown her enough paternal kindness in 
fact ; Miss Delamayn seemed endeavoring to compose 
a suitable countenance, but unable to please herself : 
Lulu had a fit of crying m the church, and scattered 
her bouquet in shreds on the floor ; I could have wept 
as I attempted to soothe her. I felt unutterably sad. 

Well, however, we got done with it. Mr. Grandire’s 
face had a ray of secure happiness as he put Lauretta 
into the carriage. I found afterwads that she had pro- 
mised Sophy not to shed tears at the last, and she 
kept her word. I could see it cost her a struggle, but 
Mr. Grandire, just at the right moment, kissing Sophy 
and reminding her that at the end of three months 
she was to be their guest in Ireland, Lauretta sud- 
denly was all joy again, and so these two parted. 

And now Sophy’s character showed, as it were, a 
new face ; I do not know what other expression to use. 
The lonely, uncomplying humor which no one but 
Lauretta could really understand or influence, for- 


248 


SOPHY. 


sook her ; she grew very gentle in these days ; I had 
almost said submissive ; her voice took a less decided 
tone ; her eyes got a pensive, shadowy look. Miss 
Delamayn said “ Sophy is improving extremely,” and 
the change might he a good one in some respects, hut 
it did not entirely please me. For one thing, I had an 
odd sensation as if something in the Sophy I knew had 
been extinguished, and I wanted her back as she used 
to be, if but for one day ; for another, she was gradu- 
ally but steadily losing flesh. 

Mr. French made a very quick recovery, and perhaps 
you feel a little curious to know how this young gen- 
tleman and Sophy got on together. He admired her, 
no doubt ; no one needed to wonder at that, for her 
appearance was now remarkably attractive, and as 
soon as he was up and about he seemed to find the 
chief business of his days in endeavoring to dissipate 
the deep-seated, painful shyness which marked Sophy’s 
manner towards him. Nothing could be more un- 
like her ; indifference, not timidity, prevented her 
from making friends as a rule, but she could not mas- 
ter or conceal the feeling in her necessary intercourse 
with Mr. French. I say necessary, because at first 
she kept from him as much as possible, and this con- 
duct and her averted gaze and short replies, when he 
resolutely engaged her in conversation, would have 
appeared to mean mere dislike, but for something 
strangely soft and even meek that mingled with it all. 
Instead of being repelled by this shrinking and hold- 
ing off, it acted on Mr. French like a charm, and as I 


SOPHY. 


249 


said before, he spent himself devotedly, sanguinely, too, 
on the task of bringing about an easier state of things 
between them. Mr. French ^was a trifle effeminate 
in his person — I mean only as to looks ; he had 
plenty of strength, so far as I could see. His liber- 
ality made him popular in the house, and not a soul 
but praised him up for sweetness of temper ; indeed, 
little things did not vex him ; but he was as fond of 
haying his own will in his own Avay as any one I ever 
saw, and most ingenious and painstaking always in 
that pursuit. He had a restless nature, too, which 
would have put me to the use of all my patience if I 
had been much in his company ; Sophy, it is likely, 
viewed him with different eyes. I was teaching 
her to knit ; Mr. French would come m the nur- 
sery, making a pretext of Lulu, who always had her 
charming face on for ‘‘dear Fabian,'’ as she pleased 
to call him, and the child being set on his knee, he 
used to remain as long as half an hour at a time, and 
entertain us with his stories. He artfully made as if 
addressing me rather than my young lady ; Sophy 
kept close to her work on the whole ; sometimes, how- 
ever, she would glance up in a way which showed that 
she was deeply interested, or be lured to put a ques- 
tion. These were Mr. French’s moments of triumph. 
Then he took to silently anticipating her few wishes, 
for all the world as if a spirit informed him of them, 
it looked magical ; and thus, what with his determin- 
ation to please, and the gift I admit he had that way, 
I could not be surprised to notice Sophy begin to yield a 


250 


SOPHY. 


little, slowly, and with inexplicable pangs of reluctance, 
yet it was yielding. I watched in a sober frame of 
mind ; I heard enough and too much said downstairs 
about Miss Laghi and Mr. French ; Miss Delamayn had 
gone so far as to remark to me that it would he 
a grand match for Sophy. Mr. Oharlesworth, mean- 
while, gave no more observation to the behavior of his 
nephew and step-daughter than if they had been 
merry companions under twelve. I watched, and I 
puzzled over Sophy, and I doubted Mr. French. I 
thought that perhaps he only occupied himself with 
her because in our quiet house he was at a total loss 
for other diversion ; a deep attachment, I fancied, 
would be differently shown. Mr. French was too 
declared and forward, and, if I can make myself 
understood, too clever in the manner of his attentions, 
for me. 

One morning, when we were getting to the end of 
November, I took Lulu out to play ball on the grav- 
elled terrace. The noonday sun shone quite warm 
out of a pale blue sky, and with the pleasant rays full 
on her, Sophy in her cap and black cloak lined with 
fur, stood leaning against one of the stone pillars at 
the foot of the wide flight of steps which leads up 
from the terrace to the glass doors of the drawing- 
room. She had a history-book in her hand, which 
she was studying for Miss Delamayn ; the governess 
was to stay at Sweetflelds until the Christmas vaca- 
tion, and after that return no more, Sophy being just 
eighteen. It was not long, you may be sure, before 


SOPHY. 


251 


Mr. Frencli appeared on the scene. He came down 
from the drawing-room, and taking his stand behind 
Sophy, affected to be reading ont of her book. 
Sophy blushed a little, turned with a distant yet 
gentle air, and offered him the volume ; he took it, 
but closed it instantly, and, as I could guess, though, 
of course, I did not overhear their talk, fell to urging 
on her some pMn he had in his head. He seemed 
very earnest, and spoke fast ; the winter light struck 
sharp on his face and Sophy’s ; Lulu ran past them 
with her many-colored ball ; I see it like a picture. 

Celia came round the house and said that Mr. 
Charlesworth wanted me in the morning-room. I 
gave permission for her to keep Lulu out another ten 
minutes and went at once. 

Mr. Charlesworth, with a troubled face, was lean- 
ing back in his chair by the fire ; opposite stood a 
woman from the Clock Cottage, a little house at the 
top of Mill Lane, so called because there was a round 
clock over the door, which old Mr. Charlesworth, at 
the time when he worked the farm himself, had 
caused to be put up for the convenience of his labor- 
ers ; it was out of order now ; but all this is of no 
importance. The woman’s name was Davis, and she 
had little Ada Davis, an orphan niece of her husband’s 
who lived them, by the hand. I knew the girl well ; 
she was nine or ten years old. 

Here has this child conm to make a statement, 
Ellen,” said Mr Charlesworth, about someone she 
saw, a stranger — in the fir- walk, on the 27th of Septem- 


252 


SOPHY. 


ber — the day Mr. French was shot. It looks odd, 
I don’t know why she has waited so long, but of 
course I will hear her story, and the aunt says you can 
speak well of the child ; is that so ? ” 

Ada was a wild little gipsy, always in trouble with 
Mrs. Davis herself, but I considered her an innocent 
creature, and now said as much, and I crossed to Mr. 
Charlesworth’s elbow, and suggested that the little 
girl would speak more at her ease if her aunt were not 
in the room. 

Mr. Oharlesworth nodded and rang the bell at his 
side. 

‘^Take Mrs. Davis into the housekeeper’s room,” 
he said, when the butler came ; “ give her a glass of 
wine. AVe need not trouble you to wait, Mrs. Davis.” 

She looked sourly at this, but had no help for it, 
and curtseyed herself out of the room. I would have 
followed her. 

^‘No, Ellen,” said Mr. Oharlesworth, oblige me 
by remaining. Tell the the child to come closer.” 

I stood near Mr. Oharlesworth’s chair, and told Ada 
to come up and speak to the gentleman ; as she 
obeyed, Sophy appeared, followed by Mr. French. 
She caught her foot, at entering, in a loose piece of 
carpet, slipped, and would have fallen forward if Mr. 
French had not grasped her by the arm. I should 
have expected this to put her out a little, but instead, 
she turned, and I saw her face gleam on him for a 
moment with its lovely Italian smile — Italian, I take 


SOPHY. 


253 


leave to call it ; she never looked so but she put me in 
mind of her partly foreign origin. 

What is the play ? ” asked Mr. French, when they 
were well inside the room, do we intrude ? Why do 
you both look so solemn on that helpless village-girl ? 

Mr. Charlesworth briefly explained the matter to 
his nephew. The young man shrugged his shoulders, 
he said lightly, thought that was for- 
gotten ” 

I was ter rifled to see Sophy lose her color and sink, 
gasping for breath, upon an ottoman in the window. 
And then she struggled ; she put forth all her native 
power ; she got the better of that betraying agony ; I 
trembled to watch her, but in a minute, the worst 
was over ; Sophy sat up, pale, looking down, 
wretched, but composed and on her guard. Mr. 
French was standing near her, but he had his eyes 
fixed on the child : Mr. Charlesworth noticed noth- 
ing. I felt as if I should faint or cry out ; I did 
neither. 

Well, Ada Davis,” began Mr. Charlesworth, in his 
mild accent, what have you got to say ? 

^^I’ll never do it again,” whispered Ada. 

Don’t be frightened. No one here will be angry 
with you, and if you are careful to speak the truth, 
you shall have five shillings.” 

Ada turned very red. 

"a went in the fir-walk,” she said rapidly, "along 
of myself, to look for cuckoos.” 

"Cuckoos?” sighed Mr. Charlesworth. 


254 


SOPHY. 


She means fir-cones, sir/^ I interposed. 

‘ ^ Oh ! well, you went to look for fir-cones, and what 
did you see? ” 

Mr. rrench was leaning near the window, watch- 
ing the child ; evidently she amused him. Sophy 
sat motionless, and to a careless observer would have 
appeared simply uninterested. 

I saw a man,” said Ada. 

What sort of a man?” Mr. Charlesworth 
inquired. 

“■A gentleman.” 

Go on. No ; wait a minute. You, know Ada 
Davis, that if you were to invent a tale and bring it 
here, you would be acting very wickedly ? ” 

‘^Yes, sir.” 

Mr. French shook his head, in some impatience, at 
his uncle’s want of discernment. 

‘‘She is speaking the truth,” he said — “eh, 
Ellen?” 

“I should say so, sir,” I replied. “What did you 
do when you saw the gentleman, Ada ? ” 

“I was frightened,” cried Ada, answering me 
much more promptly than when she had to address 
Mr. Charlesworth. “I hid.” 

Mr. Charlesworth signed to me to continue ques- 
tioning her. 

“ And what did he do ? ” I said. 

“He got in the trees, and then I crept away 
through the field, and climbed out in the road where 


SOPHY. 


255 


a bit of the paling's off at top, and I dropped all my 
cuckoos.” 

What was the gentleman like ? ” 

The child’s eye grew narrow. 

I never saw him before,” she said. 

Was he small ? ” 

'^As tall as him,” said Ada, pointing to Mr. 
French. Not so light ; wider along. He had a 
nice coat and spotty blue tie, and a stick with a blue 
top.” 

I am sure I saw him too,” I exclaimed. ^‘In 
the town — on the same day.” 

Sophy raised her head. 

“ What time were you in the fir-walk, little one ? ” 
asked Mr. French. 

don’t know, sir.” 

Nonsense, my dear. I admire your curls ; they 
are like barley^ sugar ; but you must learn to think.” 

Ada looked at him with a saucy smile. 

Yes, sir ; I remember now,” she said ; Mr. 
Orford” (that was the curate of St. Mary’s, Upper 
Maddersley) went by, running down Mill Lane, to 
meet a funeral, as if he was late, and Fanny Meads 
was going to see it at the cimmentary, so she wouldn’t 
stop with me, and the funeral was a quarter to three.” 

^AVell done,” said Mr. French. ^‘And I,” he 
went on to his uncle, ‘'as I came into the fir-walk, 
heard your stable-clock strike seven. We have had 
enough of this, with your leave ; let the witness stand 
down.” 


256 


SOPHY. 


Sophy rose, and hurried from the room. 

seems an odd sort of coincidence, though,” 
said Mr. Oharlesworth. Why did you not mention 
this sooner ? ” he inquired of Ada Davis. 

I thought aunt would give it to me for getting in 
the fir-walk.” 

^^Then what made you speak now ? ” 

I told Fanny Meads in a secret,” said Ada, pout- 
ing ; and she went and told aunt and uncle, and 
they said as I was to tell you. Fanny Meads and me 
aren’t friends now.” 

Mr. Oharlesworth began again perplexing himself 
with useless conjectures; Mr. French was deep in 
thoughts of another nature, hut when'his uncle made 
a direct appeal to him, he replied readily, Your fir- 
walk is pretty, and if you don’t keep tlie door locked, 
you must expect cuckoo-hunting maidens and tourists 
with spotted ties, and other strange characters to get 
in.” I heard no more ; Mr. Oharlesworth gave Ada 
Davis the promised five shillings, and Mr. French 
adding five more to them, I took the happy child 
away. 

What could I think ? I felt fixed at my secret 
heart the certainty that in spite of times not agree- 
ing and the other evident improbabilities on the sur- 
face of the thing, the over-dressed stranger seen by Ada 
Davis in the fir- walk and by myself, that same day, in 
Maddersley town, had some connection with the acci- 
dent, if accident indeed it were, sustained by Mr. 
French on the twenty-seventh of September. I also 


SOPHY. 


257 


was sure that Sophy knew the truth, that it affeeted 
the sisters in some way, and that Sophy, for a reason 
not to he imagined by me, held herself bound to keep 
it concealed. Oh ! what a strong reason she must 
esteem it, thought I ; what a sacred one ! for I had 
seen this girl, it must be remembered, from an age 
when she was almost a child, and I say that she had 
sincerity wrought in her soul, and marked on her 
brow. Sophy was sincerity ; her faults and her vir- 
tues all partook of that one quality; none who knew 
her Avould deny it. Poor Sophy ! poor erring, 
devoted, tortured, motherless girl ! I leave it to others 
to condemn her. 

I learnt that when Mr. French joined Sophy on the 
terrace, as I have described, he was, after all, only 
persuading her to ride with him in the afternoon, 
•and Sophy at the time had given way ; but before the 
luncheon-hour, she sent down word that her head 
ached, and she would not leave her room, she desired 
to be perfectly quiet ; Celia, who was her messenger, 
told me she repeated that twice over, and so I dared 
not disturb her. I spent a weary afternoon, sitting 
alone in the nursery, at my needle ; Lulu was gone, 
attended by Celia, to drink tea at the vicarage ; 1 sat 
and saAV the bright, short-lived sun decline, and 
stitched on incessantly, but with none of the usual 
interest in my work, a frock I had in hand for the 
child ; it was all one to me what I did. 

There was a tap at the door, and Mr. French 
came in, returned from his ride. He said, where was 


258 


SOPHY. 


the little one ? and without waiting for a reply^ in- 
quired after Sophy, I told him that I had not been 
to my young lady yet, but intended soon to get ready 
a cup of tea, and take it round to her room. Instead 
of going away as soon as these speeches had been 
exchanged between us, Mr. French walked to the 
window and stood there with his back to me, looking 
out at the prospect, pleasant even in that leafless 
season, of rivulet skirting lawn, and beyond, wide 
pasture meadows, and further yet, the dark flr-walk. 
He stood so perhaps a minute, and then came, as if in 
a musing flt, to the chimney-piece at one corner of 
which I was sitting, and leaned back against it — all 
this in complete silence, for it was not my place to make 
a remark, and I worked on as if by myself. However, 
after a while, I could not help looking up at him, and 
met his brilliant blue eyes flxed on my face with a dis- 
concertingly direct, sharp gaze. 

‘‘ Well, Ellen,’’ he said, immediately, do you think 
I have any chance ? ” 

don’t understand you, sir,” I answered in a 
hurry, but my conscience reproached me, and I added, 

or if I do, I am sure it does not become my position 
that I should.” 

Mr. French laughed shortly, although he was in no 
laughing mood, and went on, still looking hard in 
my face. That is admirable,” he said ; but sup- 
pose we forget your position for once, and remember 
only that you know more of your young lady than 
anyone else in this house ; more than my excellent 


SOPHY. 


259 


uncle, more than the monumental-browed governess, 
more, though I have studied deeply, Ellen, than I 
myself. I repeat, and I don’t want to hear about 
your position, have I any chance ? ” 

I thought his speaking to me, in this open way, so 
extraordinary, and yet he did it as if it were the most 
matter-of-course thing in the world ; I was so fluttered 
to find that he had, as I could not but believe now, 
set his heart seriously on winniog Sophy ; I felt at the 
same time so blindly, heavily conscious of something 
wrong which complicated matters, and of which Mr. 
French knew nothing at all ; I say, with this rush of 
mingled sensations, my brain was in such a maze, that 
speech was impossible at first, till, Mr. French wait- 
ing and his searching, expectant eye on me, I got a 
little rid of my agitation and replied, I have noth- 
ing to say on the subject, sir, but this — God bless 
Miss Sophy and send her happy.” 

^‘Amen! by all means,” said Mr. French; ‘^but 
religious, scrupulous, flawless model of discretion 
though you be, Ellen ” (those were his exact words), 

fail to see why you object ” He broke off ; 

he heard her step before I did ; the door was slowly 
opened and Sophy came in. Trifling things certainly 
strike us at strange moments ; as she appeared, I do 
not know why, the reflection crossed my mind that 
Mr. French had never seen Sophy except in black ; it 
did not misbecome her, but white was the wear I pre- 
ferred for her in summer, and in winter rich shades 
of red. 


260 


SOPHY. 


Sophy’s features were still and set, and her eyes half- 
closed ;■ her dark hair, which grew so thickly it was 
not easy to manage, drooped forward in disorder, 
partly over her brow ; I saw she had forgotten to 
smoothe it before leaving her room. She had a with- 
drawn, hopeless, calm, deliberate look ; Mr. French 
surveyed her and, for the first time that ever I saw 
him at such a loss, changed countenance and said 
nothing. I mended the fire ; Sophy chafed her hands 
at the blaze, though they were burning hot already, 
as I could see ; and then she raised herself from her 
stooping posture and looked at Mr. French. 

I have something to tell you,” she said, in a low 
but clear voice. 

‘‘Oh! what you please, Sophy,” he murmured; 
the high-spirited, assured young man was in a tremor, 
his brow bent ; from under it, he darted strange 
wavering glances at the girl, as if he could not wait for 
her to speak, and yet wished to avoid hearing. It was 
Sophy’s manner affected him in this way ; she spoke 
and acted like a person returned from another world. 

“ Will you like to go in the drawing-room. Miss 
Sophy?” I asked, thinking perhaps she had forgot- 
ten I was there. 

“i^o, Ellen,” she said, “I want you.” 

And her eyes unconciously sought my face as if she 
took comfort and a sense of protection from my being 
near ; she did not move a finger, only gave me that 
glance ; but I have never forgotten it. She took her 
place on my low nursing-chair, and Mr. French 


SOPHY. 


261 


remained standing by tlie cliimney-piece ; I moved 
with my work, a little behind Sophy ; she began, lean- 
ing her head on her hand and looking into the fire : 

“ It is something,’’ she said, which does not only 
concern me, or it would be no secret. It is a secret — 
the whole of it. Will you please remember ? ” Mr. 
French answered this by a look which satisfied Sophy. 

Ellen,” she continued, without turning her head, 
^^you know that evening when Mr. Grandire was 
here, and Laury and I came home in trouble, from 
walking in Mill Lane ? ” 

^^Yes, Miss Sophy,” I replied. 

I must go back a little,” she said, “ or you’ll not 
understand. We were unhappy sometimes at the 
farm where we lived with Uncle Basil before coming 
to Sweetfields ; especially Laury did not like it. 
There was a man we used to know when were little 
he was a younger brother of mamma’s second hus- 
band ; his name was Alfred Blay. We had not seen 
him since, but he got a place in an office at Farny- 
froot — that was the town nearest to us — and he made 
friends with us again, out walking; he could not 
come to the farm, because Uncle Basil said all the 
Blays were as bad as they knew how to be. Laury 
was sixteen and I was fourteen. He and Laury used 
to write to one another, and Laury fancied she liked 
him, and at last he persuaded her to go away with 
him. Uncle had been very unkind to Laury that day, 
and Alfred Blay said they could be married in France, 
and he promised to return in a week and fetch me 


262 


SOPHY. 


over ; Laury would not leave me without that. She 
was not to have told me, but she did, the night before ; 
we were awake all night, and I begged and cried so 
much by morning she had given it up. We know 
now that Alfred Blay was all falsehood, so we cannot 
tell what he really intended to do. Laury sent a boy 
with a note to the place where he was waiting with a 
tax-cart on the Farnyfroot road ; he came up to the 
farm in the evening, because he thought Uncle Basil 
would be out, but uncle was at home, and he saw 
Alfred Blay and set the dogs on him. After that, we 
were ordered not to walk outside the gates unless the 
housekeeper could go with us. We heard soon that 
Alfred Blay was dismissed from the office at Farny- 
froot for some bad conduct ; Laury hated to hear his 
name, and when we came away, she seemed to forget 
him altogether. We saw him no more, till that even- 
ing in Mill Lane.’^ 

The melancholy even voice came to a pause ; Sophy 
changed her attitude ; she leaned back and pushed 
the Jieavy locks from her forehead. Mr. French’s 
face was extremely flushed, but he looked relieved, 
and when Sophy was silent, he said gently : 

“ And this scoundrel wanted money ? ” 

Yes,’"' said Sophy ; he had Laury ’s letters, and 
he said he thought of sending them to Mr. Grandire, 
as he felt sure he would get a good price for them. 
I wanted so much to tell Henry, for Laury had done 
nothing wrong, and she was only sixteen ; but there 
was a misfortune. Henry had very strict ideas, and 


SOPHY. 


263 


when Lanry was first engaged to him, he told her that 
he had always said he would take his wife out of a 
convent ; hut he used to hear her describe our wild, 
lonely life at the farm, and afterwards how quiet we 
were at Sweetfields, and he thought she must have 
been kept as well from the world as in any convent, 

and he asked her if she had ever — ever ” Sophy 

faltered. 

^^Ever played a part in any sort of a love-affair,” 
said Mr. French, without the slightest hesitation, and 
more and more recovering his usual self ; ^^and she 
said, no, of course. Oh, Grandire ! ” 

So, when I looked at Alfred Blay,” Sophy went 
wearily on, ‘^and thought of some of the words in 
Laury’s letters, and called Henry to mind, I could not 
help agreeing with her, that if he were told now, and 
saw the letters, he would not go on with the marriage 
and though, if I had been in her place, I would 
rather — but that’s nothing; was Laury’s heart to 
break ? Alfred Blay said that if he had his expenses 
paid, and something to start with, he would go to 
Australia ; we gave him all the money we had, but it 
was not nearly enough ; then we wrote to a person 
we knew in Farnyfroot, and asked her to lend us a 
certain sum in confidence and we would pay it back 
with interest by degrees. She sent the money and I 
took it myself, one Sunday evening, to Alfred Blay 
in the garden of the mill-farm ; I did best with- 
out poor Laury. He said he had a good offer to go 
out with a friend and learn sheep-farming, and they 


264 


SOPHY. 


would sail in three days, and he burnt the letters in 
my presence , but he did not really burn them. He 
showed me a packet made up exactly like the other, 
but with only one of Laury’s letters at the top and 
another at the bottom, and he kept the rest. I 
never thought of that. Then, on the 27th, in the 
morning, I got a letter admitting that he had done so 
as the temptation was too great, and he asked me to 
meet him at a quarter to three in the- Mill Walk. I 
did not tell Laury. He was much better dressed and 
behaved differently ; he said he could not make up 
his mind to go to Australia, and he had a stroke of 
luck with his money in London. I asked him why if 
he did not want money, he came again to torment us, 
and 1 must make haste back I told him, or i should 
be missed, and he said very well ; but would I meet 
him at seven that evening in the same place ; and 
then,’^ said Sophy, still with the far-off look and 
voice, in half apathy, he began to make love to 
me.” 

Mr, French started forward with a violent execra- 
tion ; a flame sprang for one instant into Sophy’s 
pale face and faded again, and she said : Hush ! he 
did not come — he did not come again ; that evening 
he was dead.” 

^^Dead— how dead?” cried Mr. French, standing 
close in front of her. I don’t care how — but 
how ? ” 

‘"He was killed crossing the railway-line at Seven- 
trees Slope,” said Sophy. He took the short cut from 


SOPHY. 


265 


Maddersley here, and he was killed at Seventrees 
Slope. I don’t know about the letters, but they were 
signed with a pet name, not like Laury’s own — a 
stranger would learn nothing from them, and I sup- 
pose they have been destroyed. ’ ’ 

There was a short silence after this ; we were now 
between twilight and firelight. Mr. French bent 
down and whispered to Sophy, on which she sud- 
denly rose from her chair and half- crossed the room. 
There she turned and looked back towards him, yet 
her face and form were as if drawn away. 

‘‘ Cast every thought you have had of me out of 3^our 
heart,” she said in a strong, piercing voice. It was 
I fired the shot that struck you in the fir- walk ; I took 
you for the man I went to meet, it was evening, and 
you stood in the same place — you leant against the 
very tree. I meant to kill him, and if you had not 
moved as I ’—she broke off. Oh, I did not plan it,” 
she wailed, wringing her hands. I had no thoughts ; 
I could not think, my blood sang in my head, I 
dragged myself to meet him, and my bad angel put 
the pistol in my way— I was used to firearms ; uncle 
taught me as a child. 

Mr. French stood motionless and perfectly pale. I 
could not see his features clearly. 

am guilty — a guilty creature,” said Sophy, her 
head sinking forward, and I cannot declare it. I 
must live out a lie. And you don’t feel your wound 
now?” she went on, addressing herself with melan- 
choly tenderness to Fabian French ; and lately, I 


266 


SOPHY. 


don’t know how, neither have I so much felt it, but 
this morniug the words of a harmless child struck me 
down in your presence, and you did not see — you did 
not suspect — when would you suspect ? I shall feel 
better directly,” she said hurriedly — better now 

you know ; and Laury's secret — Laury’s secret ” 

A wandering, frightened look came in her face, she 
breathed very hard and quick, and laid both hands 
against her side. I ran, seeing she would fall, but 
Fabian French was before me ; he caught her in his 
arms. 

Sophy ! Sophy ! ” he said. He repeated her name 
again and again with words of love, and soothed her ; 
but another moment and it needed not, Sophy’s life 
on earth was done. 


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the fate of his characters. “ The Firm of Girdlestone ” is a good, 
robust, dramatic and sensational story which carries the reader on 
from the first chapter to the last. We only wish there were a few 
more “ unromantic romances ” to be had for the asking. — Charles- 
ton News. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


66» irn bcr Barlieet loutb • - - ByTasma 

No. 66 of Lovell’s International Series, which has had such 
deserved and generous commendation in these columns, is entitled 
“ In her Earliest Youth,” and is by Tasma, author of “ Uncle Piper 
of Piper’s Hill” and other novels of equal merit. This latest 
candidate for public favor is cleverly written and shows the literary 
genius of the writer to excellent advantage. It is one of the chatty 
- sort of novels, full of life, which holds the interest of the reader 
from beginning to end . — Buffalo Tidings. 

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67> ube Bgerfa • • By J. B. Harwood 

This is one of the English library school of novels, but it is so 
smoothly written that one reads on and on — not deeply interested, 
but not bored. A good book, therefore, for a travel or a summer 
sojourn. — The Metropolis. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

68> H tTrUC jjfrienP - - By Adeline Sergeant 

An interesting book with a healthy moral tone ; the bright, 
courageous little heroine whose prospects for earning her living have 
been injured by her gentle, aristocratic, but selfish friend, takes on 
her young shoulders the care of her fatherless brothers and sisters, 
and of her intemperate stepmother. Bravely she guides her bark 
through troubled waters into a peaceful harbor, proving herself 
throughout a true-hearted friend .” — Books and Notions. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

TOe Xlttte Cbatelalne - by The Earl of Desart 

A very clever and entertaining novel, when it is added that the 
conversations are never superfluous, the reader will understand that 
he is to expect much pleasure when “ The Little Chatelaine ” falls 
into his hands. Two things he will not do. He will not go to 
sleep over it, and he will not lay it down until he has come to its 
rather astonishing closing pages . — Boston Herald. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

70> CbtlDren of XTOgmorrOW . By William Sharp 

William Sharp’s “Children of To-morrow” is strikingly 
realistic and intensely fascinating. It is the work of a scholar, and 
while the affairs of life are handled without gloves, the author is 
always refined in his choice and grouping of words. — N. V. Jour- 
nalist. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 30 CENTS. 


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74 > B SmmQlct*6 Secret By Frank Larrett 

Together with a short story by Mabel Collins. 

The principal story in this volume, by Frank Barrett, is one of 
this writer's most thrilling tales, full of incident and animation, just 
the thing to pleasantly occupy an idle hour. The adventure in 
Morocco by Mabel Collins, entitled “Ida,” is one of the best 
sketches by this favorite author, 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


75, IRCStgU of (3rClg0tOt1C - - By Esme Stuart 

This novel of more than ordinary merit, will be extensively 
read. The plot is well laid and carried out to a nicety. It is a 
pretty story told in such an interesting, conversational way that one 
never tires of the book and is only sorry when the end comes. — 
Tacoma Times. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


76, Tlbc Ifmage of Ulrur By Franz Hartmann, m.d. 

Is a novel well calculated to please lovers of the Haggard style of 
literature. Its plot is, of course, improbable, and the voyage of the 
hero to Africa, in search of the mysterious Image of Urur, in the 
hope of finding some proofs of the immortality of the soul, is the 
point upon which the interest of the story centers . — Buffalo Courier. 

CLOTH, $I.(X.. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


77> H Scarlet Sin By Florence Marry at 

■ The very name of Marryat seems to have become associated 
with reading matter of strong literary merit, and those who read 
this work will find it is no exception to this rule . — Detroit Tribune. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


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LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


78> 36^ 0r&er of tbe Csar - - • By Joseph Hatton 

The fascination which belongs to everything Russian has been 
j made good use of by Mr. Hatton in his somewhat lurid and melo- 
dramatic novel, “ By Order of the Czar.” It is a tale of the Rus- 
sian Jews, and abounds with the traditional horrors of the knout 
and the tortures of Siberia. The novel is an interesting one, though 
the interest is rather theatrical than dramatic . — Charlestoti News. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

ZTbe Sin of 500gt By Maarten Maartens 

A strong, sweet, wholesome story with that flavor of the quaint, 
simple Holland village life which, to Americans, is so fascinating. 
The whole tone of the story is good, and it is— in spite of this — as 
some writers would have us think, intensely interesting. — Toledo 
Sunday Jotirnal. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

S 0« B JBorn Coquette - - by “The duchess” 

About once every so often, we expect to receive one of those 
breezy, talky stories by “ The Duchess,” and they are as w^elcome to 
the ladies as summer showers. She can weave in more bright 
conversation than any known author, and her works, though light 
and evanescent, are in good demand. One of the brightest of her 
stories is this one, and “A Born Coquette” will find many 
friends and readers. — Western Banner. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

Sj ^gbe JBurnt /ilMIlfon - - By James Payn 

Payn’s books are always eagerly sought after by all novel 
readers, and th^y will not be disappointed in this one. The love 
of the wealthy money lender for his youngest daughter, and her 
blind adoration for and belief in him whom all others despised, 
is very touching. Mr. Payn has certainly in this book sustained 
his reputation as a novelist. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


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LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


S2» B ‘HlHoma t VS Ibeart . . By Mrs. Alexander 

The name of this author is familiar to all lovers of fiction who 
wi’l need nothing more to assure them that they will not regret the 
time spent in reading “A Woman’s Heart.” It is a refined and 
interesting story, pleasant and easy reading, as is usual with all 
Mrs. Alexander’s works. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

83« Sgrlin ...... by ouida 

The announcement of a new novel by Ouida, sends a thrill of 
d3light through the countless host of faithful admirers of that 
petulant priestess of mild improprieties. Her new books are just 
like her old ones. There is the usual abundance of gilded vice and 
w'ilful wickedness lugged in to give the book its wonted flavor.— 
N. O. States. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

84. Ubc TRiv^al princeeg 

By Justin McCarthy and Mrs. Campbell Praed 

It is a romance of contemporary English politics wherein many 
well-known public men appear under thin disguises. There is a 
Stuart princess with lineal claims to the English throne, and there 
is an unmasked Mr. Gladstone, who boldly urges the abolition of 
the House of Lords. — Charlestoti Stinday Times. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


85. JBUnDfOlD • - - By Florence Marryat 

Is, in many respects, the best novel which has been given us by the 
prolific pen of the well-known Englishwoman. The story is novel,' 
well told, and events follow upon each other quickly, never allow- 
ing the interest to flag . — Denver News. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


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86« ‘ XTbe ipartin^ ot tbe TlCla^g by m. Betham-Edwards 

Mrs. Edwards ranks among the first of English novelists of 
the present day, and “ The Parting of the Ways ” is fully up to her 
usual standard. It is a sparkling story with a plot and dialogue 
which pleases and holds the interest throughout. 

CLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

S7« Zbc jfailure of gn3abetb • By E. Frances Poynter 

“ The Failure of Elizabeth ” by E. Frances Poynter, is a recent 
work of this author whose “ My Little Lady ” and “ Among the 
Hills.” were successes in London, and established a reputation for 
her which made her much sought after in the literary field. The 
Lovells have secured the right to publish this work and place it on 
the market believing that the name of the author is a sufficient 
guaranty of its merit. — £x. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


88« JEWS Cbll&ren By Geo. Manville P^enn 

Mr. George Manville Fenn always has a story to tell and 
always tells it well. He knows how to construct a plot and how to 
make character develop itself naturally, and with these two gifts it 
is not hard for a novelist to capture his readers. Eli’s Children” 
is a readable novel with plenty of substance in it, and easily 
and fluently written . — Charleston News. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

80 , ^be :Bisbops^ JSfble 

By David Christie Murray and Henry Hermann 
The Bishops’ Bible ” is, indeed, from first to last an unmis- 
takably good novel, for it provides at once a thoroughly interesting 
story and a most real picture of contemporary English village life. 
— London Spectator. 

CLOTH, $I.CX>. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


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LOVELL’S INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


90. Bptil’a Xa&v By “ The Duchess ” 

“ April’s Lady ” is the best thing that The Duchess ” has 
done. Her superb feminine disregard for the reasons of things is 
less apparent than in other of her stories. She has also succeeded 
in mastering the Irish dialect. — Exchange. 

•LOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


IDiolet 1b> - By May Crommelin 

A stirring tale of English country life. The thrilling descrip- 
tions of fox hunts will afford many an hour’s pleasure to the lovers 
of the sport aside for the great interest in the plot and the strong 
but lovely character of the beautiful “ M, F. H.” 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


92. TKHoman of tbc 'QHlOrlD • By F. Mabel Robinson 

Miss Robinson’s novel is a story which has both power and 
beauty. There is true pathos in the book, and there is a good deal 
of humor, and brighness as well — and “A Woman of the World” 
must be regarded as an exceptionally able, interesting and whole- 
some novel. — Spectator. 

CLOTH, $I.(X). PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


93. XLbc Conepfratorg - • By w. e. Norris 

The novel-reading world is indebted to Mr. Norris for many 
pleasant hours, and his last story increases that debt very materially. 
“The Baffled Conspirators” is a delightful book, full of sly, 
delicate humor and admirable portraiture, and the story of the 
conspiracy of the four bachelors and its ignominious failure, is 
extremely entertaining . — Charleston Times. 

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04« Strange Crimeg - * * By Wm. Westau 

Some of the crimes that Mr. Westall recounts are curious and 
extraordinary enough to repay the reader, and he tells his stories 
very well. We have found most interesting the account of the 
escape of Debagorio Mokrievitch from Eastern Siberia. It is a 
thrilling narrative. — Charleston Sun. 

OLOTH, $ 1 . 00 . PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 

05. BigbonoreD - ' - - • By Theo. Gift 

There are touches cf simple, natural pathos especially in the 
third volume; and though “Dishonored” is not in any way a 
remarkable novel, it is a novel which cannot fail to please all w^ho 
care for an intrinsically interesting and well-told story. — London 
Spectator. 

The book must be pronounced a really good novel, because it 
fulfils the purpose for which a novel exists, by telling an interesting 
story in a thoroughly interesting way. — Manchester^ {Eng.), Exam- 
iner. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


06. Zbc /Ilbg6ter^ of jfeltg ■ By b. l. farjeon 

We have had some remarkably strong stories from the pen of 
B. L. Farjeon from time to time, but none that exceeds in interest 
and strength the one which comes to us under this title. Mr. Far- 
jeon lays his story in London, and from the cry cf “ Help ” which 
opens the first chapter to the closing paragraph “ Her trials are 
over,” it is full of life, movement, and the most absorbing interest. 
— Buffalo Tidings. 

A most exciting novel, full of interest, with a very complicated 
plot excellently worked out. From first to last the interest is 
admirably sustained. — St. Louis Republic. 

CLOTH, $1.00. PAPER COVER, 50 CENTS. 


UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. N. Y. 


Lovell’3 International series— Continued. 


No. Cts. 

65. The Firm op Girdlestone. 

A. Conan Doyle 50 

66. In Her Earliest Youth. 

Tasma 50 

67. The Lady Egeria. J. B. 

Harwood 50 

61. A True Friend. A. Sergeant 50 

69. The Little Chatelaine. The 

Earl of Desart 50 

70. Children op To-Morrow. 

William Sharp 30 

71. The Haunted !• ouNTAiN AND 

Hetty’s Revenge. K. S. 
Macquoid 30 

72. A Daughter’s Sacrifice. F. 

C. Philips and P. Fendall. . . 50 

7'3. Hauntings. Vernon Lee. ... 50 

74. A Smuggler’s Secret. F. 


Barrett 50 

75. Kestell op Greystone. Es- 

me Stuart 50 

76. The Talk ing Image op Urur. 

Franz Hartmann, M.D 50 

77. A Scarlet Sin. F. Marryat.. 50 

78. By Order op the Czar. 

Toseph Hatton 50 

79. The Sin op Joost Avelingh. 

Maarten Maartens 50 

80. A Born Coquette. “ The 

Duchess” 50 

81. The Burnt Million. J. Paj’n 50 

82. A Woman’s Heart. Mrs. 

Alexander 50 

83. Syrlin. Quid a 50 

84. The Rival Princess. Justin 

McCarthy a^^d Mrs. C. Praed 50 

85. Blindfold. F> Marryat 50 

86. The Parting op the Ways. 

M. Betham-Ed wards 50 

87. The Failure op Elisabeth. 

E. Frances Poynter 50 

88. Eli’s Children. George 

ManvilleFenn 50 


89. The Bishops’ Bible. David 

C. Murray and H. Hermann 50 

90. April’s Lady. “The Duchess” 50 

91. Violet Vyvian, M.F.H. May 

Crommelin 50 

92. A WoMAN.op the World. F. 

Mabel Robinson 50 

93. The Baffled Conspirators. 

W.E. Norris 50 

94. Strange Crimes. W. Westall 50 

95. Dishonored. Theo. Gift 50 

96. The Mystery op M. Felix. 

B. L. Far jeon 50 

97. With Essex in Ireland. 

lion. Emily Lawless 50 

08. Soldiers Three and Other 

Stories. Rudyard Kipling 50 

99. Whose was THE Hand? M.E. 

Braddoii 50 

100. The Blind MirsiciAN. Step- 

niak and William Westall 50 

101. The House on the Scar. 

Bertha Thomas 50 

102. The Wages OP Sin. L. Malet 50 

103. The Phantom ’Rickshaw. 

Rudyard Kipling 50 

104. The Love op a Lady. Annie 

Thomas 50 


No. cts. 

105. How Came He Dead? J. 

Fitzgerald Molloy 50 

106. The Vicomtb’s Bride. Esme 

Stuart ... 50 

107. A Reverend Gentleman. 

J. Maclaren Cobban 50 

108. Notes from the ‘News.’ 

James Payn 50 

109. The Keeper op the Keys. 

F. W. Robinson 50 


110. The Scudamores. F. C. 

Philips and C. J. Wills. ... 50 

111. The Confessions op a 

Woman. Mabel Collins.. 50 

112. Sowing THE Wind. E.Lynn 


Linton 50 

114. Margaret Byng. F. C. 

Philips 50 

115. For One and the World. 

M. Betham-Ed wards 50 

116. Princess Sunshine. Mrs. J. 

H. Riddell 50 

117. Sloanb Square Scandal. 

Annie Thomas 50 

118. The Night op the 3d Ult. 

H. F. Wood 50 

119. Quite Another Story. 

Jean Ingelow 50 

120. Heart op Gold. L T. Meade 50 

121. The Word and the Will. 

James Payn 50 

122. Dumps. Mrs. Louisa Parr. . 50 

123. Thte Black Box Murder. 

By the man who discovered 
the murderer 50 

124. The Great Mill St. Mys- 

tery. Adeline Sergeant 50 

125. Between Life and Death. 

Frank Barrett 50 

126. Name and Fame. ^ /^’eline 

Sergeant and Ewing J ester 50 

127. Dramas op Life. G. R. 

Sims 50 

128. Lover or Friend? Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 50 

129. Famous or Infamous. Ber- 

tha Thomas 50 

130. The House op Halliwell. 

Mrs. Henry Wood 50 

131. Ruffino. Ouida. EO 

1.32. Alas 1 Rhoda Broughton. . . 50 

133. Basil and Annette. B. L. 

Farjeon 50 

134. The Demoniac. W. Besant 50 

135. Brave Heart and True. 

Florence IMamat 50 

136. Lady Maude’s Mania. G. 

Manville Fenn 50 

1-37. Marcia. W. E. Norris 50 

1.38. Wormwood. Marie Corelli. 50 

139. The Honorable Miss. L. 

T. Meade 50 

140. A BitterBirthright. Dora 

Russell 50 

141. A Double Knot. G. M. Feim 50 

142. A Hidden Foe. G. A llenty 50 

143. Urith. S. BariT-g-Gouid. . . 50 

144. Grayspoint. Mrs. J. H. 50 

Riddell 50 

14’). A Mint of ;Money. G. M. 50 
Fenn 50 



FO R 


eOLGATES 


SOAPS & 
PERFUMES 


To Americans it is a strange sight to see a large field planted with 
rose bushes, in long, straight rows, very much as corn is cultivated in 
this country. 

Yet there are hundreds of fields in Southern France, like the one 
shown in the above picture, which bear no less than 180,000 lbs, or 90 
tons of roses each year, for Colgate & Co. 

As the perfume of a fiower is more fragrant in the early morning, 
great care is exercised to secure the roses from only those farmers who 
gather their flowers early in the morning, before the dew has dried from 
the leaves, and the hot sun drawn off the perfume. 

It is this attention to the minutest detail in obtaining only the 
choicest kind of perfume, and the best of materials, which has secured for 
Colgate & Co, the highest awards at World Expositions, and gives un- 
rividled superiority to their Soaps and Perfumes, the favorite of which 

CASHMERE BOUQUET. 




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